THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


X 


May  the  People  who've  smiled  and  applauded, 
Whom  he  loves  for  the  welcome  they've  shown, 
And  the  homes  where  the  Pilgrim  has  tarried, 
Found  the  numberless  friends  still  his  own  : 
All  the  hearts  of  the  circle  fraternal 
Love-linking  the  infinite  shores- 
May  ye  find  on  the  Devil's  Tea-table, 
A  crumb  of  the  Cake  Truly  Yours, 

Lu  B.  CAKE. 


...THE... 

DEVIL'S  TEA-TABLE 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 

LU    B.   CAKE 

AUTHOR  OF 

"'THE  STORY  MY  MOTHER  TOLD  ME,"  "PEN  SKETCHES," 
NUMEROUS  SONGS,  ETC. 


PUBLISHED   BY 

L.    B.    CAKE 

90  WEST  BROADWAY 

NEW  YORK  CITY 


COPYRIGHTED 

1898 
BY  Lu  B.  CAKE 


PS 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS. 

The  author  acknowledges  the  courtesy  of  Har 
per's  Bazar,  The  Youth!  s  Companion,  Brother 
hood  of  Locomotive  Engineers'  Journal,  Detroit 
Free  Press,  The  Saturday  Globe,  and  The  Edu 
cational  Gazette,  for  permission  to  use  matter  he 
wrote  for  these  publications. 


JUBRARY 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

ANOTHER  DAY  APART 90 

ARMY  AN'  NAVY  HOORAY  SONG, 141 

As  TOLD  BY  A  GHOST  FROM  THE  "MAINE,"  .        .       .  125- 

BABY 183 

BATTLE  OF  MANILA  BAY, 131 

BRUISEY  THE  NEWSEY 192 

BELLS  IN  THE  TOWKR  OF  TIMK, 2ft 

BOYS  AND  BUMBLEBEES, 151 

BICYCLE  SONG, 15ft 

CARNIVAL  OF  LEAVES, 51 

CHRISTMAS  WITH  MY  OLD  MOTHER,       ....  63 

CHURCH  GOOSE, 180 

DAMON  AND  PYTHIAS 74 

DEALING  IN  OPTIONS,       .       .       .       .       .       .       .  166 

DEVIL'S  CHRISTMAS  Pi, 191 

DEVIL'S  TEA-TABLE, 9 

FIRST  DAY  AT  SCHOOL, 172 

GOIN'  TO  LAW, .       .  110 

GHOSES  IN  THE  BARN, 185 

GOTLIEB'S  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE,         .       .  18ft 

GRAVE  OF  A  STAR, 174 

HERDSMAN'S  HORN  WELCOMING  DAY,    ....  23 

HOBSON  AND  HEROES, 13ft 

How  I  PROPOSED  TO  MARY, 103 

How  PATTI  SANG  HOME,  SWEET  HOME,       ...  101 

Is  THERE  AN  HONEST  LAWYER, 107 

JAKE'S  TANKSGIBBIN'  DREAM 94 

JOAN  OF  ARC, 65 

JOHN  AN'  JONATHAN, 145 

JOHN  IRVING:  No  HOME 8& 

JUMPING  THE  ROPE,  179- 


PAGE. 

LEAVING  THE  FARM, 117 

"MAINE"  GOES  SAILING  ON, 143 

MANY  IN  ONE, 52 

MARY  JANE  HAW, 171 

MEMORIAL  DAY, 58 

MONEY, 80 

MUSICAL  VOICE  OF  LOVE, 18 

NAME  THAT  HEADS  THE  TICKET, 128 

NEW  WOMAN 188 

NEW  YEAR  TRANSMIGRATION  OF  MY  SOUL,  ...  21 

OLD  MINSTREL, 45 

OLD  PHANTOM 34 

OOTSIE  TOOTSIE 162 

OUR  HALLOWED  HEROES, 147 

POORHOUSE  ROCK  ME  TO  SLEEP, 88 

PORTRAIT  OF  FATHER  TIME 32 

PRESS  CLUB  BOYS, 189 

RAILWAY  ENGINEER, 91 

SAMPSON  AND  SCHLEY, 139 

SEEING  THE  UNSEEN, 16 

SIGNS  OF  THE  TIMES, 81 

SILENT  CITY 28 

SONNET, 195 

SPRING  is  SPRUNG, 158 

THOUSAND  ISLANDS, 42 

TRAVELLING  MAN'S  SONG, 164 

UNCLE  SAM 129 

WALTZ  OF  THE  GIANTS, 31 

WHAT  IT  Is  TO  BE  POOR, 86 

WHEN  MY  CHORES  ARE  DONE, 99 

WHEN  SHE'S  A  GON'  AWAY, 106 

WIDOW'S  Cow  IN  THE  POUND, 92 

WIND  GHOULS, 127 

WOMAN, 62 

YANKEE  DEWEY, 144 

YANKEE  GIRL  IN  WAR,   .        .        .        .        .        .       .  148 


DEDICATION. 

This  book  is  one  that  will  be  read, 

Will  be  admired,  and  treasured,  too — 
By  that  dear  one  whose  faith  has  led, 

Whose  love  will  make  the  promise  true. 
And  so  assured  of  real  fame, 

In  all  the  world,  for  all  of  life, 
(For  she  and  these  are  one,  the  same,) 

I  dedicate  my  waif  to — WIFE. 


THE  DEVIL'S  TEA-TABLE. 
Compare  with  length  of  man  on  top  to  get  the  dimensions  of  this  wonderful  rock. 


THE  DEVIL'S  TEA-TABLE. 

The  Old  Tea-table  !  Landmark  on  life's  wide  sea  ! 

Here  have  I  played,  a  happy  boy,  heart  free  ! 

Here  rose  the  sun  with  hallowed  torch  of  gold, 

This  altar  his,  the  great  high  priest  of  old 

Began  the  service  that  for  ages  past 

All  time  has  chanted  in  God's  temple  vast. 

The  floral  censers  swung  on  hill,  in  dale, 

And  o'  er  the  holy  was  the  cloudlet  veil ; 

A  momentary  hush  of  silent  pray'c> 

Then  praising  chorals  filled  the  balmy  air, 

And  nature  sang  in  harmony  divine, 

Until  I  saw  the  heav'nly  glory  shine  ! 

The  people  all  arose  and  went  their  way — 

And  thus  began  the  duties  of  the  day. 

Departing  ghosts  from  all  the  chimneys  rise, 
While  to  and  fro  the  busy  housewife  flies  ; 
The  morning  meal  wafts  incense  out  the  doors, 
And  hurries  all  the  men  about  the  chores  ; 
The  horses  neigh  and  paw  their  wants  until 
The  grain  and  hay  their  mouths  and  mangers  fill. 
Loud  low  the  kine,  their  unweaned  offspring  call 
Till  foaming  milk  punch  ends  the  festive  ball; 
The  swine,  a  shrieking  chorus  at  the  trough, 
All  dive  in  soup  and  choke  their  op'ra  off ; 


A  gentle  call  comes  from  the  bleating  fold, 
The  shepherd  goes,  as  in  the  days  of  old, 
And  by  the  creek  that  winds  around  the  hill, 
Leads  them  in  pastures  green,  by  waters  still. 
The  fowls  fly  out,  the  plumed  knight's  armor 

rings, 

Then  he  his  challenge  crows,  and  folds  his  wings. 
The  turkey-cock  swells  with  his  lordly  pride, 
And,  with  his  high  life,  red  his  nose  is  dyed, 
As  'round  he  struts  to  show  his  feathers  fine— 
His  silly  gabble  also  hinting  wine — 
Then  turns  with  whirring  wing  to  climax  show  : 
All  fuss  and  feathers,  like  some  folks  we  know. 
The  barefoot  boys  with  whistle  loud  and  shrill, 
Drive  out  the  cows  to  pasture  on  the  hill. 
The  dog  barks,  too,  as  if  he  understood  ; 
Or  trees  a  squirrel  in  a  neighb'ring  wood. 
Then  club,  or  stone,  a  barefoot  savage  throws, 
Bombarding  while  the  herd  estraying  goes. 
The  squirrel  leaps  from  bough  to  bough  till  he 
Derisive  chatters  from  a  hollow  tree. 
The  hired  man  rides  contentedly  along, 
Perched  sidewise  on  his  horse,  and  sings  a  song  ; 
An  old  love  ditty,  full  of  plaintive  strains 
That  tell  the  hearts  and  hopes  of  love-sick  swains. 
Then,  soon  dismounting,  links  the  plow  behind, 
And  drives  the  horses  harnessed  single-lined, 
With  jerk  and  pull  and    echoed   "Gtee"    and 

"Haw;" 

And  other  words  to  guide  and  make  them  draw. 

10 


The  furrow  rolls,  a  wave  made  by  the  plow, 

Until,  with  tired  team  and  sweating  brow, 

The  plowman  sits  upon  the  anchored  beam, 

And  takes  a  rest,  interpreting  his  dream  ; 

Or  hums  the  tune  the  hired  girl  sings  and  thrums 

With  her  pan  cymbals  and  her  kettle  drums. 

The  farmer  fills  the  sack  with  measured  grain, 

With  roots,  or  with  the  apples  that  remain  ; 

The  good  wife  fills  the  tub  with  bricks  of  gold, 

Her  baskets  all  the  treasured  iv'ry  hold  ; 

He  dons  his   "store-clothes,"    she    her    ironed 

gown, 

They  go  to  market  in  the  near-by  town. 
Boys  have  their  "stent,"  and  then  a  holiday 
Around  the  Old  Tea-table,  wild  at  play. 

The  Devil's  Tea-table,  name  it  long  has  borne  : 
A  giant  rock  a  glacier  must  have  torn 
From  nature's  quarry  in  the  ages  gone, 
And  held  imprisoned,  drifting,  till  upon 
A  tow' ring  hill  the  enchained  exile  stands, 
A  monument  sublime,  not  made  with  hands. 
Now  high  it  rises  from  the  hill-top's  crown, 
A  table  where  the  ancient  gods  sat  down 
To  banquet  with  the  world,  as  they  did  then  ; 
For  in  those  days  gods  held  converse  with  men. 
And  mortals  gathered  in  the  vale  below, 
Where  now  Muskingum's  crystal  waters  flow, 
Received  the  oracles  and  blessings  free, 
And  went  away  to  live  in  amity. 

11 


But  times  and  customs  change,  the  gods  withdraw, 

The  Red  man  comes  with  superstitious  awe, 

And  in  the  valley  lights  his  Council  Fire  ; 

The  world  his  temple,  nature's  voice  the  choir, 

The  rock  the  altar,  and  his  sacrifice 

A  heart  obeying  Hoyowenta  wise. 

The  ceremonies  of  childlike  belief, 

Have  passed  away  with  Totem,  Tribe  and  Chief  ; 

But  on  the  western  hill,  across  the  vale, 

As  straight  as  wild  bird's  flight,  or  Indian  trail, 

A  sacred  mound  appears,  which  places  priest 

Or  warden,  west,  the  Master  in  the  east. 

Here  flints,   and  beads,   and  bones  have    been 

exhumed ; 
Past  glory  and  the  story  all  entombed. 

Again  a  change,  the  world  is  not  the  same  ; 
The  Paleface  conquers  all,  gives  each  a  name. 
Ohio  is  the  heritage  so  fair ; 
Among  the  Morgan  hills,  in  heaven's  air, 
Muskingum's  Eden  valley  leads  the  way, 
And  there's  the  Devil's  Tea-table  to-day. 
Anear,  the  Devil's  Cave,  with  haunting  ghosts, 
And  orgies  of  the  dread  satanic  hosts. 
The  labyrinthine  darkness  loses  all 
Who  seek,  to  find  the  Devil's  Banquet  Hall. 
Here  witches'  cauldrons  flame  with  hellish  light, 
And  goblins  hold  high  carnival  all  night. 
But  when  the  moon's  eclipsed,  clouds  hide  the 
stars, 

12 


And  not  a  ray  the  ebon  darkness  mars. 
Then  Satan  comes,  and  from  the  dungeon  cave 
Calls  goblins,  ghouls,  and  ev'ry  imp  and  knave  ; 
The  great  bal  masque  !      They  take  what  shape 

they  will 

And  join  the  Devils'  dance  upon  the  hill. 
The  witches'  cauldrons  brew  satanic  tea 
Of  serpents'  rattles,  toadstools,  Upas-tree, 
And  mad-dog's  foam,  nightshade,  and  hell-hag's 

bane, 

And  whatsoever  kills,  and  causes  pain. 
When  fury  lags,  the  Devil's  demon  call 
Around  the  great  tea-table  gathers  all ; 
The  witches  serve  the  tea  ;  fast  as  they  pour 
The  demons  drink  till  hell  breaks  loose  once 

more. 

So  long  thus  used  by  him,  the  Man  of  Sin, 
The  Devil's  Tea-table  it  has  always  been. 

The  tide  turns  back,  flows  to  the  golden  shore, 
And,  thither  borne,  I  am  a  child  once  more  ! 
The  bluest  sky,  the  greenest  fields  and  wolds, 
The  fairest  flowers,  the  sweetest  bud  that  folds, 
Most  fragrant  blossoms,  and  the  clearest  streams, 
Most  golden  sun  and  brightest  starlight  beams ; 
The  happiest  homes,  the  hearts  most  kind  and 

true, 

They  're  mine  again,  and  I  am  with  them,  too  ; 
The  old  white  house  among  the  orchard  trees, 
Familiar  voices  float  upon  the  breeze  ; 

13 


The  faces  loved,  all  smiling  as  of  yore, 
Are  in  the  home,  or  play  around  the  door ; 
The  old  dog  barks,  and  leaps  to  kiss  my  hand  ; 
We  run  a  race,  we  join  the  boyish  band 
That  wades  the  creek  ;  we  watch  the  water-wheel 
Make  snow  and  diamonds  with  its  busy  reel ; 
The  pumping  engine,  there  with  awe  we  gaze, 
Scare  at  the  steam-gauge,  ask  how  pumps  can 

raise 

Salt  water  from  the  ocean  miles  away  ; 
The  furnace  with  the  kettles,  there  we  stay  ; 
The  vapor  ghosts  e'er  dancing,  if  one  halt, 
Then,  like  Lot's  wife  of  old,  it  turns  to  salt ; 
We  cook  our  banquet  in  the  boiling  brine, 
A  feast  where  gods  would  serve,  if  they  could 

dine  ; 

Like  millionaires  we  launch  our  yacht  afloat, 
Although  our  craft  is  but  an  old  Johnboat ; 
We  purl  the  water,  hold  the  dripping  oar 
To  watch  the  foam -bees  on  the  waves  afore  ; 
Or  roguishly  all  bend  and  coyly  peep 
At  other  rogues  just  like  us  in  the  deep. 
A  steamboat  comes,  we  row  close  to  her  side 
And  cry  "ahoy  !  "  and  on  the  billows  ride  ; 
We  pull  across,  the  eastern  shore  we  gain, 
And  prouder  sailors  never  crossed  the  main ; 
We  climb  the  rugged  hill  again  to-day, 

And  here's  the  Old  Tea-table  !  Let  us  play  ! — 
****** 

O  boys,  the  sun  dips  down  the  western  sky  ! 

14 


The  lengthening  shadows  in  the  valley  lie, 
And  on  the  river  !  dark  the  waters  flow  ! 
We  must  cross  over  !     Ready  all  to  go  ? 
What !  none  to  answer?  have  the  boys  all  gone? 
I  am  alone  ! — Where  have  they  wandered  on  ? 
Or  have  they  grown  a-weary  of  the  play, 
And,  near  the  Old  Tea-table,   sleep   the  hours 
away? 

Upon  the  western  hill  the  pilgrim  sun 
Awaits  the  warden,  ere  the  journey  's  done  ! 
The  ancient  mound  a  tower  of  the  wall, 
And  gateway  to  his  kingly  castle  hall. 
As  he  descends,  flames  from  his  golden  urn 
Upon  the  eastern  hill  ascending  burn, 
Until  with  good -night  glint  on  hill  and  wold, 
They  gild  the  Old  Tea-table  o'er  with  gold  ! 
The  barefoot  boy  brings  back  the  lowing  kine, 
With  team  unhitched  the  plowman  folds  the 

line ; 

The  wagon  's  at  the  gate,  returned  from  town, 
With  tender  care  he  helps  her  stepping  down  ; 
The  children  with  expectant  greeting  run  ; 
The  hired  girl  thrums  again,  chores  are  begun  ; 
The  moon  gleams  on  the  river,  crowns  the  hill ; 
The  cricket's  chirrup  chimes  with  "whippoor- 

will!" 

What  dims  my  eyes  ?  a  mist  or  cloud  comes  on ! — 
The  Old  Tea-table  lost !  The  boys  all  gone  ! 


15 


SEEING  THE  UNSEEN. 

Lo !  all  heav'n  and  earth  adoring  as  the  morn 
ing  draweth  nigh, 

In  a  golden,  flaming  chariot  He  rides  upon  the 
sky! 

All  illumining  the  heavens  with  a  blaze  no  eye 
can  meet, 

Diamond-mirrored  in  the  dewdrops  that  are 
shining  at  my  feet ! 

He  is  passing  in  the  shadow  as  the  night  steals 
down  the  vale, 

And  upon  the  sky  receding  I  behold  His  gar 
ments  trail ; 

Though  to  look  upon  His  mantle  is  to  mortals 
ne'er  allowed, 

The  reflection  of  the  colors  falls  in  beauty  on  a 
cloud. 

Hidden  is  the  path  He  goeth,  for  His  way  is  all 

unknown ; 
But  upon  the  sky  receding  in  the  sunset  it  hath 

shone : 
Then  I  see  His  ship  of  silver  sailing  in  the  night 

afar, 
Or  the  flashing  of  His  footfall,  as  He  steps  from 

star  to  star. 

16 


I  revere  His  reign  omnipotent,  as  on  the  storm 

He  rides, 
With  the  lightning  glance  of  majesty  His  cloud 

pavilion  hides ; 
Learn  the  terror  of  His  power  in  the  crashing 

forest  trees, 
And  the  peace  past  understanding,  as  He  stills 

the  raging  seas. 

In  the  falling  of  the  sparrow  He  reveals  His 
tender  care, 

And  the  halo  of  His  glory  in  the  robes  the  lilies 
wear ; 

While  I  wonder  at  the  wisdom  in  the  harmoniz 
ing  spheres, 

And  the  greatness  of  the  mercy  moved  by  peni 
tential  tears. 

In  the  joy  of  all  His  creatures,  is  His  goodness 

manifest, 
And  the  image  of  the  holy  is  enshrined  in  ev'ry 

breast ; 
O  in  all  He  freely  gives  below,  all  He  forgives 

above, 
Seeing  love,  I  see  the  Unseen  ;  for  God,  Himself, 

is  love. 


17 


THE  MUSICAL  VOICE  OF  LOVE. 

[The  alternate  lines  have  long  and  short,  as  marked  in  first  t\vo. 
Hyphen  the  stress  of  voice  in  reading.] 

All  alone,  now  my  own, 

Here  from  the  world  apart, 
Thou  with  me,  one  are  we, 

Voice  of  my  soul  and  heart ! 
All  unheard  is  the  word 

Sweetly  I  murmur  low  ; 
Thinking  this  in  my  bliss — 

Only  the  angels  know  ! 

Ev'ry  thought,  Cupid  wrought, 

Turns  to  a  royal  gem, 
Light  of  love  from  above, 

Star  for  thy  diadem. 
Fancy  weaves  orange  leaves, 

Braiding  a  garland  rare, 
I  would  wind  joy  entwined, 

Over  thy  brow  so  fair. 

Brightly  hope  here  doth  ope 

Far  in  the  future  years, 
There  with  me  constantly, 

Ever  one  form  appears. 
Golden  hours,  birds  and  flowers, 

Songs,  and  sweet  music  played  ; 
Pictures,  books,  quiet  nooks, 

Home  like  a  heaven  made. 

18 


0  as  bright  and  as  light, 

Rivalling  e'en  the  star 
When  asleep  on  the  deep, 

Where  limpid  waters  are  ; 
So  is  thine  image  mine, 

Star  of  my  love-lit  sea, 
Guide  and  chart  of  my  heart, 

Yea,  all  the  world  to  me. 

For  thy  sake  I  would  make 

Wealth  only  folly's  prize  ; 
Or  to  shield  thee  would  yield 

Toiling  and  sacrifice. 
Not  the  name  won  by  fame 

Moves  me  to  climb  the  height ; 
'Tis  for  thee  I  would  be 

More  than  I  am  to-night. 

Life  is  dear.     Oh  !  I  fear 

Death  with  a  coward  heart ; 
For  I  think,  as  I  shrink, 

Death  even  us  may  part. 
Oh,  to  live  and  to  give 

Fondly  through  years  to  be, 
The  caress,  happiness, 

All  that  I  wish  for  thee  ! 

Ah,  how  time,  like  a  rhyme 
Winged  with  a  careless  strain, 

Floating  nigh,  passeth  by, 
Never  recalled  again ! 

19 


While  the  joys  time  destroys 
Fade  in  the  hope  to  die — 

Oh,  lost  years,  tombs  and  tears, 
Lovers  and  loved  there  lie  ! 

Were  it  so  we  could  know 

Only  a  score  of  years 
Will  be  done  ere  the  sun 

Dims  in  our  parting  tears ; 
How  much  more  of  the  score 

Then  would  we  yield  to  fate  \ 
Oh !  for  home,  life's  fair  glome, 

Long  would  we  will  to  wait  ? 

Should  the  stream  of  our  dream 

Flow  where  the  waters  part, 
Bear  us  on  till  the  dawn 

Wake  us,  torn  heart  from  heart — 
Would  we  yearn  to  return, 

Stand  where  we  once  had  stood  \ 
There  delight  to  unite, 

Asking  no  other  good  ? 

Ah  !  my  sweet,  time  is  fleet, 

Life  is  not  long,  at  best ; 
Day  by  day  wings  away, 

Dies  in  the  nearer  west. 
Thine  and  mine,  mine  and  thine, 

All  is  the  toy  of  fate. 
Shall  the  bell  ring,  or  knell  ? 

Dear,  shall  we  dare  to  wait  ? 

20 


NEW  YEAR  TRANSMIGRATION  OF 
MY   SOUL. 

Enthralled  like  a  tranced  musician, 
Am  I  this  New  Year's  day  ; 

Time,  Time  is  the  wondrous  organ, 
And  Life  the  hymn  I'll  play. 

The  keyboard  of  days  before  me, 

The  chords  my  soul  shall  sweep  ; 
Will  mine  be  a  song  of  transport, 

Or  dirge  my  heart  shall  weep  ? 

#  *  •*  *  %  * 

To-day,  like  an  eager  artist, 
I  come  with  brush  in  hand  ; 

The  colors  and  canvass  waiting 
An  inspiration  grand. 

Ah  !  out  of  the  days  of  darkness, 

Of  light,  of  all  for  me, 
I'll  paint  my  own  life  eternal — 

What  will  the  picture  be  ? 

*  *  *  *  *  # 

A  sculptor  before  the  marble, 

Am  I  before  the  years  ; 
My  heart  is  the  mallet  beating, 

The  dust  that  falls — my  tears. 
21 


The  model — it  is  the  Master  ! 
The  glory  of  all  fame. 

0  will  the  unveiling  give  me 

The  crowned,  immortal  name  ? 
****** 

1  muse,  like  a  poet  dreaming 
The  dreams  that  are  divine  ; 

I  know  I  must  write,  this  new  year, 
Each  day,  a  deathless  line. 

Life's  epic  in  grandest  action, 

May  be  a  holy  psalm, 
Or  tragedy  born  of  passion 

That  only  death  will  calm. 
****** 

Like  one  who  begins  a  journey, 

In  lands  unknown,  afar, 
I  stand  on  the  New  Year  threshold 

Where  all  my  loved  ones  are. 

No  mortal  has  gone  before  me, 

The  way  is  all  untried, 
Untraversed,  save  by  the  footprints 

Of  Christ,  the  crucified. 

Oh  !  where  will  my  wand' rings  lead  me 

When  weary,  travel  worn, 
And  eventide  ends  the  journey, 

What  of  the  night? — and  morn? 


22 


THE  HERDSMAN'S    HORN  WELCOMING- 
DAY. 

<This  poem  introduces  voice  imitation  of  Alpine  horn  in  reading.    Aa 
given  by  Ella  June  Meade,  its  success  is  known  to  the  public). 

In  Switzerland,  creation's  hand 

Has  moulded  all  sublimely  grand. 

There  morning  glides  o'er  mountain  sides 

That  form  the  homes  where  darkness  hides. 

In  gorges  deep  the  waters  sleep, 

In  icy  calm  they  ever  keep  ; 

And  near  the  sky  forever  lie 

The  snows  the  ages  multiply  ; 

From  Alpine  crown  the  storm  gods  frown, 

And  hurl  the  avalanches  down  ; 

And  ev'ry where  the  upper  air, 

Is  cold  and  silent  as  despair. 

But  far  below,  the  flowers  grow 
Where  murm'ring  waters  ever  flow  ; 
The  singing  bird,  the  flock  and  herd, 
The  happy  home  and  loving  word. 

Though  hard  his  lot,  the  Switzer's  cot 
Glows  with  a  cheer  the  world  has  not. 
His  wants  are  few,  his  friendships  true, 
He  loves  his  God,  his  fellows,  too. 
Before  the  sun  his  duties  run, 
Nor  end  until  the  day  is  done  ; 

23 


First,  praise  and  pray'r;  then  drowning  care 

Caressing  wife,  and  children  fair  ; 

Then  with  his  sheep,  up  rocky  steep, 

In  paths  that  round  the  chasm  creep, 

By  ways  they've  worn  through  brier  and  thorn, 

He  leads  them  with  his  winding  horn. 

Though  lowly  bred  where  overhead 
The  stormy  heavens  darkly  spread  ; 
Although  his  life  is  daily  strife 
With  want  and  care,  with  dangers  rife  ; 
Yet  in  his  heart,  undimmed  by  art, 
There  dwells  the  nobler,  better  part. 
So  when  is  found  the  grazing  ground 
And  all  his  flocks  are  feeding  'round, 
He  climbs  on  high,  until  his  eye 
Commands  the  gray-streaked,  eastern  sky. 
Here,  with  his  horn,  to  custom  born, 
He  waits  to  meet  the  coming  morn. 
The  olden  way,  traditions  say, 
The  herdsmen  hail  the  new-born  day. 

The  shepherd  star  now  drives  afar, 
Where  other  sunless  pastures  are, 
The  flocks  of  light  that  turn  with  fright 
And  hurry  to  the  fold  of  night. 
The  darkness  flies,  the  day-gods  rise 
And  wave  their  banners  in  the  skies ! 
Their  banners  made  of  mystic  braid 
Whose  changing  colors  never  fade, 
And  all  unfurled,  begemmed  and  purled, 
24 


They  glitter  o'er  a  drowsy  world  ! 
In  grand  array,  the  king  of  day 
Comes  mounting  up  the  golden  way  ! 
The  glory  blinds  !  the  morning  shines  ! 
The  herdsman's  horn  this  welcome  winds  : 

[Voice  imitation  of  Alpine  horn] 

The  clear  notes  ring  on  airy  wing, 
Like  songs  we  dream  the  angels  sing  ; 

[Echo  the  notes  of  the  horn] 

With  music  thrill,  o'er  vale  and  hill, 
The  echoes  fade, — grow  fainter  still  ;— 

[Give  echoes  dying  in  the  distance]. 

In  silence  all  the  echoes  fall, 

And  then  he  winds  this  greeting  call : 
"All  hail,  all  hail !  "     The  clear  notes  scale 

The  crags,  and  echo  in  the  dale  ; 

From  mountain  high,  as  from  the  sky, 

Rings  out  his  neighbor's  answ'ring  cry : 
[Echo  the  "all  hail"] 

From  canyon  walls  are  other  calls, 

Till  near,  and  far,  it  rises,  falls — 
"All  hail !— all  hail !  "  o'er  all  the  vale, 

Where'er  is  known  a  shepherd's  trail, 

The  echoes  go  with  music  flow, 
"All  hail !  all  hail ! '' — then  dying  slow, 
"All  hail ! — all  hail ! "  they  vanish  so. 

From  mount  and  plain  an  anthem  strain 
Of  voices  blends  in  grand  refrain  : 
"Praise  the  Lord! — the  Lord!"  the  answ'ring 
word 

25 


From  all  the  mountain  tops  is  heard — 
"  Praise  the  Lord  ! — the  Lord  ! — the  Lord  ! — the 
Lord!" 

From  all  the  heights  and  hills  adored  : 
In  vales  and  dells  the  echo  wells, 
Like  chimes  of  grand  cathedral  bells  : 
To  heaven  a  great  hosanna  swells — 
"  Praise  ye  the  Lord  !  " 


Ringing  bells,  far  away  in  a  belfry, 
Fill  the  heart  with  a  heavenly  chime  ; 

My  soul  swells  with  the  anthem  of  ages, 
From  the  bells  in  the  Tower  of  Time. 

Sweet  and  low  is  the  anthem  immortal, 

For  the  Tower  of  Time  is  afar, 
And  the  melody  born  of  the  choral 

That  is  ringing  from  star  unto  star. 

Oh  !  the  temple  of  time  is  creation, 
And  of  silver,  of  gold  are  the  bells, 

Heaven-hung,  shining  down  from  the  tower 
With  a  splendor  no  imagery  tells. 

Bells  of  silver  to  ring  for  the  mortal, 
Telling  all  of  the  flight  of  the  years  ; 

Down,  adown  float  the  chimes  of  the  chanson, 
Till  they  well  from  the  heart  with  the  tears. 

26 


Bells  of  gold,  these  to  ring  to  immortals  ; 

The  eternal  the  anthem  they  roll 
High  and  higher,  till,  sung  by  the  angels, 

It  becomes  the  "new  song"  of  the  soul. 

Angel  trinity,  Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity, 
Ring  the  gold  bells  to  heaven  above  : 

Angel  trio  the  silver  for  mortals, 
Holy  Pity,  and  Mercy,  and  Love. 

Sweetly  silver  bells  ring  down  the  answer, 
When  the  bells  of  gold  ring  up  a  prayer  : 

For  the  almoners,  Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity, 
Love,  and  Mercy,  and  Pity,  are  there. 

Loud  the  gold  bells  rang  joyful  to  heaven, 
For  the  Eden  with  beauty  empearled  ; 

Low  the  silver  bells  rang  out  in  sorrow, 
For  a  Paradise  lost  to  a  world  ! 

Silver  choir  then  intoning  for  ages, 

Heaven's  promise  of  Eden  again, 
Until  all  of  the  joy-bells  of  glory, 

Sang,  "on  earth  peace,  good-will  toward  men." 

Bells  of  silver  to  earth  a  dirge  knelling, 
When  the  One  who  so  loved  the  world  died ! 

Bells  of  gold  tolling,  tolling  to  heaven, 
For  the  Savior,  the  Lord  crucified  ! 

How  the  bells  of  gold  chanted  to  heaven, 
How  the  silver  bells  caroled  to  earth, 

When  the  stone  rolled  away  by  the  angel 
Gave  to  Life,  and  to  Love,  a  new  birth  ! 

27 


Evermore  bells  of  gold  waft  the  story, 
And  forever  the  silver  bells  chime  ; 

Aye  are  ringing  and  singing  the  angels, 
Aye  the  bells  in  the  Tower  of  Time  ; 

Aye  shall  ring,  and  shall  sing,  till  He  cometh, 
Then  the  bells  in  the  tower  shall  fall, 

While  the  angels  who  rang  them  shall  crown  Him 
King  of  Kings,  and  the  Lord  of  All ! 


THE  SILENT  CITY. 

I  wandered,  to-day,  in  a  city 
With  moss  and  the  ivy  grown, 

Where  music,  or  song,  or  laughter, 
Or  striving,  was  all  unknown. 

The  palace-like  fronts  of  marble 
Rose  stately  along  the  way  ; 

Compeers,  side  by  side  the  dwellers 
All  dreamlessly  slumbering  lay. 

The  homes  in  the  silent  city, 

Where  darker  than  dungeons  are  ; 

And  never,  through  door  or  window, 
Came  light  of  the  sun,  or  star. 

No  children  at  play  in  the  dooryard, 
No  gain-seeking  crowd  of  men, 

No  fashion -plumed  throng  of  women  ; 
Yet  all  of  these  dwelt  there,  then. 

28 


How  quiet  the  streets,  and  narrow  ! 

Untrodden  the  threshold  stone  ; 
The  names  on  the  marble  doorways 

Were  moss  hid,  and  ivy  grown. 

I  spelled  out  the  names  carved  quaintly, 
The  good,  and  the  great,  were  there  ; 

The  poet,  the  artist  gifted, 
The  strong,  and  the  brave,  and  fair. 

But  where  is  the  painter's  picture, 
And  where  is  the  poet's  song  ? 

The  good  ?  and  the  great  ?  the  fair  ones  \ 
And  where  are  the  brave  ?  and  strong  \ 

The  canvass  that  spoke, — is  ashes  ; 

The  pen  of  the  poet, — rust ; 
The  beauty,  and  strength,  and  valor, 

All  mere  earthly  greatness, — dust. 

But  where  the  forgotten  artist, 

Whose  picture  in  ashes  lies  ? 
With  limners  who  paint  the  flowers, 

The  morning  and  ev'ning  skies. 

The  poet,  long  lost  to  mem'ry, 
Is  musing  o'er  grander  themes, 

And  rhyming  the  heavenly  numbers 
We  hear  in  our  angel  dreams. 

The  sculptor,  who  found  in  marble 

An  angel  of  joy,  or  tears, 
Is  forming  the  worlds  in  glory, 

And  moulding  the  silver  spheres. 

29 


And  all  that  was  real  valor, 

And  all  that  was  truly  fair, 
And  all  that  was  good  in  goodness, 

All  these  are  not  here  ;  but  There. 

A  word  under  moss  and  ivy, 
A  windowless  home  on  the  street 

Where  never  is  song,  or  laughter, 
Or  patter  of  passing  feet — 

The  All  to  reward  ambition  ! 

And  this  is  the  end  of  fame  ; 
A  home  in  the  Silent  City, 

An  ivy-veiled,  moss-grown  name. 

I  turned  from  the  silent  city, 
Of  ivy,  and  moss,  and  mould, 

Away  from  the  streets  deserted, 
And  thought  of  the  lessons  told  : 

How  vainly  our  lives  are  wasted, 
How  foolish  our  vaunting  pride, 

When  all  that  we  live  for/ die  for, 
The  ivy  and  grave-moss  hide. 

I  turned  to  the  Unseen  City, 

Where  names  in  the  pure  white  stone  * 
Are  never  forgot,  nor  ever 

Are  moss  hid,  nor  ivy  grown. 


*  To  him  that  overcometh  will  I  give  to  eat  of  the  hidden  manna,  and 
will  give  him  a  white  stone,  and  in  the  stone  a  new  name  written,  which 
no  man  knoweth  saving  he  that  receiveth  it.— Rev.  2d  chap.  17th  verse. 


30 


THE  WALTZ  OF  THE  GIANTS. 

[Cyclones  in  White  Pine  Valley,  Nevada,  lift  the  sand  in  columns 
twenty  feet  in  diameter,  and  three  miles  high.  Ten  to  twenty  in  number, 
they  waltz  across  the  desert,  a  dance  sublime  and  grotesque,  filling  the  im 
agination  with  superstitious  awe.] 

We  know,  long  ago  lived  the  giants  of  old, 
Nevada's  white    sands  hide  these  wonderful 

men ; 
The  storms  raise  their  forms,  on  the  wings  of  the 

wind, 
They  join  in  the  dance  of  the  desert  again. 

The  hall  for  the  ball  of  the  giants  is  grand, 
The  gold  chandelier  of  the  sun  swings  alone  ; 

As  high  as  the  sky  sapphire  walls  run  around, 
Run  far  as  the  clouds  of  the  desert  are  blown. 

Unseen,  ghouls  I  ween,  are  the  players  that  play 
The  bacchanal  music  whose  frenzy  ne'er  halts  ; 

Around  and  around,  in  a  rythmical  sound 

With  the  beat  of  their  feet,  so  the  great  giants 
waltz. 

Around  and  around,  as  the  waters  are  wound 
In  cycles  of    measures    the    wild    maelstrom 

chants ; 
Around  and  around,    and  they  waltz  o'er  the 

ground 

Like  girls  in  the  whirls  of  the  dream  of  the 
dance. 

31 


What  seems  the  bright  gleams  of  the  lightning  so 
near, 

Are  passionate  glances  of  great  giant  eyes  ; 
The  rush  and  the  blush  of  the  fire  in  the  veins, 

That  revels,  and  rages,  and  riots,  and  dies. 

They  laugh  as  they  quaff  the  storm -wine  white 

with  foam, 
They  sway  and  they  swing  with  the  music's 

weird  strains ; 
They  wheel  and  they  reel,    dizzy  drunk  in  the 

dance, 

Whirl  by,   fall  and  lie  on  the  wide  western 
plains. 


A  PORTRAIT  OF  FATHER  TIME. 

With  a  mantle  of  stars,  and  a  crown  of  the  sun, 
And  a  footstep  so  noiseless  no  mortal  e'er  hears, 

In  the  pathway  eternal  doth  Time  ever  run  ; 
While  the  moments,  his  footfalls,  float  out  into 
years. 

With  the  frown  of  the  winter,  the  smile  of  the 

spring, 
And  the  autumn's  rich  storing  of  summer's 

bright  gold ; 

With  a  song  all  the  brooks  and  the  birds  ever  sing, 
And  his  wings  of  the  winds,  wings  One  only 
can  fold. 

32 


With  the  dawn  of  the  ages  his  long  locks  are 

gray; 

But  the  glory  of  morning  is  young  in  his  eyes  ; 
On  his  face  all  earth-sorrows  in  night  shadows 

Play, 

And  the  dews  are  his  tears,  when  they  fall  as 
he  flies. 

Ah,  his  face,  in  the  long  locks  of  dawn  silver 

gray, 
And  so  white  with  the  light  of  creation's  fair 

morn ! 

'Tis  a  soul  incarnation  no  words  will  portray  ; 
All  the  infinite  grace  of  the  heavenly  born. 

And  the  voice  from  the  ocean  is  Time's,  and  it 

tells 

All  the  secrets  of  earth,  of  the  air  and  the  sea  ; 
And  we  listen  o'erawed,  as  it  sinks  and  it  swells, — 
Just  a  thrill  of  the  meaning ;  what  may,  may 
not  be. 

When  the  zephyrs  waft  low,  'tis  the  sighing  of 

Time, 
For  his  great  heart  is  touched  by  the  woes  of 

the  world ; 
But  his  laugh  is  the  voice  of  the  children  who 

climb 

O'er  the  hills  where  the  music  of  waters  is 
purled. 

33 


O  the  love-kiss  of  Time  is  the  rose  in  the  cheek, 

And  the  light  in  the  eyes  is  the  hope  he  imparts ! 

But  his  touch  is  the  hush  when  the  lips  no  more 

speak 

The  sweet  words  of  endearment  they  breathed 
on  our  hearts ! 

And  the  silence   that  follows  the  stars  is  the 

prayer 
Father  Time  makes  to  One  who  shall  stand  on 

the  shore, 
And  shall  stand  on  the  sea,  and  whose  voice  shall 

declare, 
That  forever  and  ever,  Time  shall  be  no  more. 


OLD  PHANTOM. 

'Tis  the  day  of  the  Louisville  races, 

(This  was  long  "foh  de  wah"  I  will  state,) 
And  the  Blue  Grass  is  famed  of  all  places 

For  the  blood  with  the  best  going  gait. 
Here  the  pride  of  the  daughters  is  riding, 

And  the  sons'  highest  glory  is  uhoss," 
While  the  pedigree  ranks  with  the  Bible, 

And  the  man  to  bet  biggest  is  Boss. 

All  around  the  race  track  hang  the  people, 
And  the  great  amphitheatre  full ; 

At  the  Judges'  Stand,  in  the  quaint  steeple, 
Is  the  starter  awaiting  to  pull 

34 


Signal  bells  for  the  "go"  of  the  racers, 
Or  recall  when  the  "send  off"  is  bad  ; 

And  the  runners,  and  trotters,  and  pacers, 
Are  all  pawing  and  prancing  like  mad. 

"  Clear  the  track  !  "  comes  the  call  of  the  judges, 

"  Horses  now  for  the  Free-for-all  trot ; 
He  that  wins  this  race  bears  off  the  honor, 

And  the  best,  biggest  purse  we  have  got." 
Dong,  dong,  dong  !  ring  the  bell  notes  of  warning, 

And  the  jockeys  leap  onto  the  seat, 
And  the  grooms  strip  away  the  bright  blankets, 

And  the  steeds  spurn  the  earth  with  their  feet. 

Then  a  last,  searching  look  of  the  owners, 

And  low-forward  the  jockeys  all  bend  ; 
The  quick,  loving  caress  of  the  darkeys, 

Who  all  worship  the  horses  they  "tend," 
And  away  the  light  sulkies  go  darting, 

Till  the  stand  of  the  judges  they  face, 
Where  they  pause  for  the  lot  and  the  order, 

That  assigns  each  his  start  in  the  race. 

A  low  murmur  runs  round  the  great  circle, 

And  the  throng  stands  a-tiptoe  to  see  ; 
Here  and  there  rings  the  name  of  a  fav'rite, 

Where  the  betting  and  bluffing  runs  free: 
"  Here's  five  tens  Henry  Clay  is  the  winner  ! " 

"  Here's  a  hundred  Black  Dan  takes  the  heat !  " 
"  Winning  horse,  fifty  tens  I  can  name  him  !  " 

"  I've  a  thousand  Clay  Henry  will  beat ! " 

35 


"  Henry  Clay  'gainst  the  Held  for  five  hundred  !  " 

"Two  to  one,  Henry  Clay  'gainst  the  field  !  " 
"  Hyar's  yer  man  !  I  'm  the  field  for  all  takers," 

Drawls  a  green- looking  gawk,  "an'  I'm  heel'd! " 
Slyly  winking  they  cover  his  money  ; 

How  they  cheer  as  he  wildly  bets  on  ! 
Now  they  crowd  up  to  fleece  the  poor  victim, 

And  they  bet  with  the  tapped  demijohn 
Till  the  names  make  a  book  of  remembrance, 

Till  he  vows  his  last  dollar  is  staked ; 
Then  huzza,  "  Henry  Clay  !  "  gayly  gloating, 

As  they  figure  the  piles  they  have  raked. 

For  the  sons  of  the  South  bet  on  Henry, 

And  the  belles  wave  their  fans  in  his  name — 
Listen,  hark  !  what  is  that  all  are  shouting  I 

"Take  him  off!"  "Go  it,  ghost!"   "Pshaw, 

he's  lame !" 
Then  a  roar  runs  around  the  great  circle, 

From  the  "  badge  ring"  they  send  up  a  howl, 
Blue  Grass  belles  curl  their  lips  in  derision,  • 

And  the  judges  look  out  with  a  growl ; 
For  a  horse  that  is  fresh  from  the  stable, 

Is  now  jogging  to  place  and  to  view  ; 
If  that  thing  is  a  horse  which  goes  limping, 

With  a  gait  like  a  lame  kangaroo  ; 
Spider-leg' d,  gander-neck' d,  and  so  raw-boned, 

His  sharp  back  cuts  his  hide  most  in  two  ; 
Drooping  head,  bony  tail,  sleepy  looking, 

And  the  harness  all  tied  up  with  strings  ; 

86 


Both  the  shafts  of  the  sulky  are  broken, 
And  green  hick'ry  withes  bind  up  the  things  ; 

For  a  driver,  a  plantation  darkey, 

Whose  big  feet  make  a  dashboard  each  side, 

As  the  sulky  wheels  rattle  and  wobble, 
And  a  hick'ry  gad  gestures  his  pride. 

Loud   they  call,    "Give  him  hay!"    "'rah  fer 
Phantom  !" 

"  Let  him  be,  he's  an  ole  fast  an'  f er  !  " 
And  the  blood  horses  shy  and  look  scornful, 

While  the  jockeys  all  fling  out  a  slur. 
'Tis  such  fun,  that,  the  judges  consenting, 

He  is  given  a  go  in  the  race, 
So  the  darkey  whips  out  for  a  warming, 

Away  down  past  the  old  starting  place. 
The  horse  skeleton  limbers  a  little, 

As  the  cheers  and  the  gad  break  his  dream  ; 
Lifts  his  head,  moves  his  ears,  and  his  limping 

Now  and  then  takes  on  motions  that  seem 
Like  a  strain  for  a  stride,  long  forgotten, 

Or  a  step  hinting  speed,  though  untrained. 
Then  he  joins  with  the  pedigree  racers, 

But  they  show  the  poor  plug  is  disdained. 

Now  the  jockeys  all  trick  for  advantage, 
As  they  press  to  the  wire  and  the  start, 

And  the  judges  look  out.     Dong,  the  bell  taps  ! 
"  It's  a  go  !  "  is  the  cry  ;  see  them  part, 

As  they  rush  o'er  the  track,  neck  and  neck  some, 
And  the  slow  falling  back  round  the  ring ! 

37 


Henry  Clay  and  Black  Dan  are  the  leaders, 
And  Old  Phantom  the  tail  of  the  string ; 

"  Go  it  Bones  !  "  "  Pall  him  off  !  "  "No,  no,  stay 

there  ! 
You'll  be  head  when  they  come  up  behind  ! " 

"They    will    'distance'     Ole    Bones    sure    as 
preachin'  !  " 

Is  the  cry  as  the  fear  comes  to  mind  ; 
And  still  farther  and  farther  they  leave  him  ; 

Will  the  bloods  reach  the  wire  'fore  he  poles  ? 
Yes,  he's  left !—  No  !— "  Hurrah,  'rah  fer  Phan 
tom!" 

Is  the  shout  of  the  fun-loving  souls  ; 
For  he  reaches  the  distance-pole  safely, 

There  he  balks  ;  as  the  blood  horses  pass 
Under  wire  in  the  cheer  of  the  thousands, 

Poor  Old  Phantom,  why,  he  goes  to  grass. 

"Henry  Clay  takes  the  heat ;  time,  two-forty  !  " 

All  the  sons  of  the  South  raise  a  shout, 
And  the  belles  wave  their  handkerchiefs  gaily  ; 

"  G'lang  dar,  yo  ole  fool !  wot  yo  'bout  ?  " 
Snarls  the  darkey,  as  jawing  at  Phantom, 

'  Mid  the  jokes  he  goes  under  the  wire  ; 
When  the  cheers  end,  he  shakes  his  head  saying, 

"  Yo  look  out !  Tennessee  nebber  tire  ! " 
Then    he    drives    'round    the    track,    Phantom 
limping, 

While  the  pedigree  trotters  are  cooled, 


And  the  betting  runs  wild  upon  Henry  ; 

But  the  fielders  all  hedge,  or  are  pooled, 
Save  the  green-looking  gawk,  again  drawling  : 

"I'm  the  field  till  I  bet  all  my  dust !  " 
And  he  gets  five  to  one  as  he  takes  them  ; 

When  he  runs  out  of  money,  they  trust. 

There  they  go,  second  heat,  Henry  leading, 

And  Old  Phantom  far  back  in  the  rear  ! 
Look  !  the  darkey  has  thrown  down  the  hick'ry  ! 

I  declare  the  horse  doesn't  appear 
A  mite  lame,  and  he's  stretching  out  strangely  ! 

"My,  that  reach!  why,  Ole  Phantom  's  got 

wings ! " 
"  He 's  a  flyin' ! "  "Waal,  now,  he 's  a  gainin'  ! " 

"  Say,  the  darkey  is  pullin'  the  strings  ! " 
"Jest  look  thar!  the  old  skeleton  's  caught  'em, 

An'  afore  they  git  half  the  way  round  ! " 
"  Neck    an'    neck  with    Clay    Henry  at    home 
stretch!" 

"  Why,  his  feet  ain't  a  techin'  the  ground  !  " 
" Hallelooyar,  he  's  leadin'  !"   "Hail  C'lumby, 

Henry  Clay  is  a  gittin'  behind  !  " 
"  Thar's  a  gap  the  old  spider-leg's  opened  !  " 

"  Look-e-hyar,  do  I  see  \  am  I  blind  ? 
Got  the  wire  ?    Let  me  holler— 0  glory  ! " 

'Tis  the  Greeny  that  leads  in  the  cheer, 
As  Old  Phantom  shoots  under  the  score  wire, 

With  the  pedigrees  all  in  the  rear. 

39 


O  such  shouts  and  confusion  !  such  laughter  ! 

And  the  handkerchief  out  ev'ry where  ! 
'Tis  an  earthquake  of  pent  up  emotion 

Throwing  canes,  hats,  and  bonnets  in  air ! 
But  the  sons  of  the  South  jeer,  declaring, 

"  The  ole  hoss  had  a  fit ;  it  won't  last !  " 
While  the  betters  on  Henry  talk  wildly, 

The  quaint  darkey  calls,  as  he  jogs  past : 
"  Tennessee  nebber  tire,  I  done  tole  yo !  " 

And  Old  Phantom  limps  back  to  his  place, 
Where  it  seems  he  will  fall  all  to  pieces 

Before  they  get  off  in  the  race. 

* 

There  they're  off !  and  Old  Phantom  is  leading, 

For  he  has  the  inside  for  this  go. 
That's  too  bad  !  Henry  Clay  darts  around  him  ! 

Takes  the  pole,  leads  the  way — yes,  'tis  so, 
Sure  enough,  the  old  skeleton  's  losing  ! 

Henry  Clay  leads  the  way  by  a  length  ! 
All  go  by  !— he 's  behind  lost  and  lonesome  ! 

His  big  spurt  has  used  up  all  his  strength. 
Well,  '  twas  glory  enough  for  the  darkey  ; 

There  was  vict'ry  enough  in  one  heat  ; 
But  the  common  folks  look  disappointed  ; 

For  they  hoped  that  the  swells  would  be  beat. 

On  they  go,  Henry  Clay  working  level ; 

Never  breaks,  beats  the  time  made  before; 
What  is  that  ?    Can  it  be  resurrection 

Has  come  back  to  Old  Phantom  once  more  ? 

40 


Yes,  lie  lives  ?    See  the  old  darkey  pulling, 

Till  lie  holds  him  up  clear  of  the  track  ! 
Where  his  legs  beat  the  air  like  long  pinions, 

Nose  straight  out  and  his  tail  sticking  back, 
As  he  flies ! — fills  the  gap  ! — now  with  Henry  !— 

Henry's  driver  tries  crowding  him  close  ! 
Plies  the  whip  at  the  beck  of  his  owner, 

And  his  mettled  horse  breaks  the  first  dose, 
And  he  runs  !  but  Old  Phantom  stays  with  him  ! 

Hear  the  sulky  wheels  hum,  buzz,  and  ring  ! 
Nostrils  wide,  eyes  ablaze,  mouth  a-foaming, 

Phantom's  rushing  bones  whistle  and  sing, 
Cutting  air  like  the  tongue  of  a  Jewsharp  ! 

Darkey  driver  can  hardly  get  breath, 
And  he  gasps  !  tugs  the  lines  ! — 'tis  a  tableau 

Of  Ambition  "home-stretching"  with  death! 
All  the  judges  lean  out  of  the  steeple ! 

Round  the  track  all  the  people  are  wild  ! 
Look  up  there  in  the  crowded  pavilion  ! 

Ev'ry  man,  ev'ry  woman  and  child 
Rises  up  as  they  come  to  the  score-wire  ! 

0  hurrah  !  hallelu  !  Phantom  's  won  ! 

Men  act  mad,  and  the  women  seem  crazy  ; 
But  Old  Phantom,  he  is  n't  nigh  done  ; 
On  he  tears,  darkey  bracing  and  pulling ; — 

"  Running  off ! "  "  He  '11  be  killed  ! "  are  the 
cries  ; 

"Stop    him!"— "Whoa!— don't    be    skeered," 

shouts  the  Greeny, 
"  He  's  jest  goin'  to  git  exercise  ! 

41 


An'  to  say  suthin'  calmin',  an'  soothin', 
I  remark,  that  ere  boss  b' longs  to  me. 

An'  the  reason  I  bet  so  wild  on  him, 

He's  a  throughbred,  from  ole  Tennessee  !  " 

0  the  cheers  that  go  up  from  the  people, 

And  the  howl  from  the  badge-ring  and  pools, 
And  the  groans  from  the  backers  of  Henry, 
When  they  find  they  themselves  are  the  fools  ! 

While  the  Greeny  is  stacking  his  winnings, 
And  the  losers  all  foam  in  their  ire, 

The  glad  darkey  draws  short  up,  exclaiming, 
"  Umgh-um-ugh  !  Tennessee  nebber  tire  ! 

But  yo  see  wen  ole  Massa  am  bettin', 
Wy,  sometimes  we  play  dis  leetle  game : 

1  dribes  in  wid  dis  hoss  an'  ole  sulky, 

And  I  say,  '  Tennessee,  go  it  lame  ! ' 
And  he  jogs  round  the  track  with  a  chuckle, 

The  trained  racer  a-limping  again, 
And  the  great  hallelujah  that  follows, 

Has  never  been  equalled  since  then. 


THOUSAND  ISLANDS. 

Grandly  glide,  O  blue  tide, 
Down  to  the  ocean  wide  ! 
Even  so  our  lives  go, 
Down  to  the  ocean  flow ! 

42 


Oh,  the  wiles  of  the  isles 
Where  enchanting  beauty  smiles  ! 
Where  the  breeze  rocks  the  trees, 
Crooning  fairy  lullabes ; 
Sylvan  bays  where  the  days, 
Like  a  lover  who  delays, 
Linger  late,  joyful  wait, 
Ere  they  pass  the  good-bye  gate. 

Near  the  shore,  winged  with  oar, 
On  the  water  sink  and  soar 
Yawl  and  skiff,  where  the  cliff 
Rears  the  old  rain-written  glyph. 
Wand  of  waves  there  engraves, 
On  the  rock  the  water  laves, 
Flight  of  time  in  a  rhyme, 
As  of  bells  that  far  off  chime. 
Wavelets  run  in  the  sun, 
Happy  children,  ev'ry  one  ; 
Never  queen  yet  was  seen 
Crowned  with  gems  like  these  I  ween. 

Laughing  waves  !  Dancing  waves  ! 
Oh,  the  jewels  of  thy  caves 
Hidden  lie  from  mortal  eye, 
Till  ye  flash  them,  passing  by — 
Or  on  the  strand,  thy  crested  band 
Plays  low  the  songs  of  "Better  Land  ! " 

Drifting  by,  on  lake,  in  sky, 
Phantom  barques  all  dreamful  lie. 
Ship  of  cloud,  and  ship  whose  shroud 
Blows  where  blue  as  fair  is  plowed. 

43 


In  the  cove,  or  the  grove, 
Happy  lovers  row  or  rove. 
Children  play,  wond'ring  stray, 
Where  the  echoes  answer  aye. 
Age  appears  young  in  years, 
In  the  life  it  sees  and  hears. 
Pleasures  float  with  the  boat, 
Or  on  music's  liquid  note  ; 
Grief  and  care  vanish  there, 
Like  a  sigh  breathed  on  the  air. 

Day  is  done  and  the  sun, 
Like  a  king  whose  race  is  run, 
Dying  down  yields  his  crown, 
And  the  life-lease  of  renown. 
In  the  skies,  glinting  rise 
Starry  ranks  of  Paradise, 
Marching  by,  soon  to  die 
With  the  queen  they  glorify. 
Cottage  wall,  lighthouse  tall, 
Wold  and  water,  sailboat,  all- 
in  grandeur  gleam  until  we  seem 
Enthralled  in  some  entrancing  dream. 

Saint  Lawrence,  Saint !  Ah,  unaquaint, 
Who  a  Heavenly  form  can  paint  ? 
Give  the  grace,  the  angel  face, 
Glory  known  no  other  place  ? 
Nor  can  I  paint  the  sky 
With  the  glories  passing  by, 
Where,  all  wiles,  beauty  smiles 
O'er  the  fairy  Thousand  Isles. 
44 


THE  OLD  MINSTREL. 

[The  prose  version  of  the  incident  was  written  by  this  author,  although 
credited  to  another  in  Elocution  Books.  Kecite  this  with  musical  accom 
paniment.] 

The  gaily  crowded  Op'ra  Hall  was  ringing  with 

delight, 
The  famous  Georgia  Minstrels  gave  a  benefit  that 

night ; 
The  dear  old  "Suanee  River"  closed  in  melody 

so  sweet, 
That  tears  and  encores  followed  and  compelled 

them  to  repeat. 

And  once  again  the  last  refrain  was  dying  on  the 

air, 
Those  words   that   breathe  the  longing   of  the 

weary  heart  of  care  ; 
Parquette,    dress-circle,    galleries,    ay,    all    the 

brilliant  throng, 
Gave  cheers,  and  tears,  and  flowers,  and  applauses 

loud  and  long. 

Encoring  changed  to  murmurs  when  there  crowded 

for  the  stage, 
An  old  "  Wreck,"  rough  and  ragged,  bowed  with 

sorrow,  want,  and  age. 
A  time-worn  battered  banjo  he  hugged  closely  to 

his  breast, 
His  long  white  hair  enveiling,  as  his  withered  lips 

caressed. 

45 


All  hearts  were  touched  with  sympathy,  as  at  the 

front  he  stood, 

He  lifted  up  his  banjo,  as  a  sign  of  brotherhood  ; 
Then  with   a  choking  voice  he  cried — "Boys, 

sing  that  song  once  more  !  — 
Once  more,   for  an  old  minstrel's  sake   whose 

singing  days  are  o'er. 

"I  loved  the  ringing  banjo,  and  I  learned  to  play 

and  sing  ; 
To  win  me  fame  I  left  my  home,  my  mother, 

everything  ; 
The  world  applauded,  flattered,  I  was  feasted, 

spoiled  with  praise ; 
I  revelled  in  it  madly,  and  I  lived  its  wildest  ways. 

"I've  done  with  fame  and  pleasure, — I  have  won 

and  lost  it  all. 
Oh,  days  that  I  have  squandered  !  Oh,  the  deeds 

I  can' t  recall ! 
The  voice  that  pleased  the  world  awhile,   has 

weak  and  feeble  grown  ; 
Now,  weary  and  heart-broken,  the  old  minstrel 's 

left  alone ! 

"Alone  with  my  old  banjo,  'tis  my  only  earthly 

friend ; 
The  only  thing  in  all  the  world  that's  faithful  to 

the  end ; 
For  she  who  loved  and  praised  me,  when  I  sang 

beside  her  knee, 
Died  while  I  was  a  wanderer,  for  years  not  seeing 

me. 

46 


"I  left  her,  then,  to  please  the  world;  the  world 

forsakes  me  now, 
As  I  forsook  my  mother; — Oh,  pray  help  me, 

boys,  somehow ! 
Please  sing  that  dear,   home  song  again, — my 

mother's  song,  once  more, 
And  let  my  sad  heart  feel  the  thrill  it  knew  in 

days  of  yore  !  " 

He  sank  down  in  the  forward  row,  the  house  was 

hushed  and  still; 
The  solo  of  his  mother's  song  rose  with  a  tender 

thrill :  — 

[Sung.] 

Way  down  upon  the  Suanee  river,  far,  far,  away; 
There's  where  my  heart  is  turning  ever, 
There's  where  the  old  folks  stay. 
AJ1  jup  and  down  the  whole  creation,    sadly  I 

roam, 

Still  longing  for  the  old  plantation, 
And  for  the  old  folks  at  home. 

CHORUS: 

All  the  world  is  sad  and  dreary, 

Ev'ry where  I  roam, 
O  darkies,  how  my  heart  grows  weary, 

Far  from  the  old  folks  at  home. 


47 


The  old  man  leaning  forward,  listened  raptured 

to  the  song, 
While  in  the  furrows  on  his  cheeks  the  warm 

tears  ran  along. 
The  summer  of  his  life  came  back  with  all  his 

boyhood  dreams, 
His  mother,  home,  and  love,  and  all  that  dear 

and  happy  seems. 

Unconsciously  his  fingers  sought  the  banjo  strings 

again, 
And  with  a  weird  accompaniment,  took  up  the 

sweet  refrain. 
The  banjo  caught  the  spirit  that  is  born  of  other 

things, 
And  shook  the  wondrous,  soul-like  chords  from 

all  the  quiv'ring  strings. 

But  when  the  interlude  was  played,  the  old  man 

bowed  his  head, 
As  fondly  o'er  his  banjo,  as  a  mother  o'er  her 

dead. 
And  over  all  the  crowded  house,   were  great, 

rough  hearts  unmanned, 
And  tears  of  pity  brushed  away  by    beauty's 

jewelled  hand. 

The  singer's  voice   was  trembling,   as   the  last 

sweet  lines  were  sung; 
The  chords  of  the  old  banjo  wailing,  high  above 

them  rung :  - 

48 


[Sung.] 

.  One  little  hut  among  the  bushes, 

One  that  I  love, 
Still  fondly  to  my  mem'ry  rushes, 

No  matter  where  I  rove. 
When  shall  I  see  the  bees  a  humming, 

All  round  the  comb  ? 
When  shall  I  hear  the  banjo  tumming, 

Down  in  my  good  old  home  ? 

The  final  chorus  followed,  and  the  hoary  head 

was  raised, 
The  light  of  a  new  dawning  filled  the  face  on 

which  all  gazed; 
His  voice  then  joined  the  singers  with  a  blending 

all  its  own. 
Like  rich,    and   o'er-strung  harp  strings,    with 

plaintive,  haunting  tone. 
[Chorus  sung.~\ 

The  chorus  closed,   his  fingers  stilled,  his  head 

sank  down  once  more, 
The  long  white  hair  enshrouding  the  old  banjo  as 

before. 

A  tearful    silence  followed,   then    the  manager 

came  out, 
And  said: — "The  announcement  that  I  make 

will  please  you  all,  no  doubt : 
My  comp'ny  gives  one-half  of   all  this  benefit 

shall  make, 
To  that  man  with  the  banjo,   for  the  poor  old 

minstrel's  sake." 

49 


With  tumult  of  applauses,  and  heart-moved  by 
pity's  power, 

Collections  swept  about  the  hall,  a  perfect  golden 

shower. 
They  heaped  it  then  upon  the  stage,  and  cheered, 

and  cheered  once  more, 
To  see  a  sum  the  footlights  ne'er  had  blazed 

upon  before. 

The  banjo  still  was  hushed  beneath  the  shroud  of 

snow-white  hair, 
No  word,  no  sign  of  gratitude,  came  from  the  one 

bowed  there; 
He  answered  not  their  charity,  he  heeded  not 

their  call 
To  come  before  the  footlights  and  acknowledge  to 

them  all. 

The  manager  went  down  to  lead  him  out  before 

the  crowd, 
He  laid  his  hand  upon  the  head  that  o'er  the 

banjo  bowed; 
Then  looking   up   most    rev'rently,    with    voice 

subdued,  he  said  :  — 
"  His  soul  has  wandered  off  once  more, — the  poor 

old  minstrel 's  dead ! " 

His  heart  had  sung  that  last  refrain  upon  the 

border  land, 
Where  mortals,   and  immortals,   in  mysterious 

union  stand : 
Ay,  sang  it  as  his  spirit  broke  this  being's  prison 

bars, 
And  left   "life  sad    and  dreary,"   for  a  home 

beyond  the  stars. 

50 


THE  CARNIVAL  OF  LEAVES. 

[Autumn  in  the  Catskill  Mountains,  New  York.] 

O    now  is   Beauty's    festival,   The  Carnival  of 

Leaves ! 
The   wand    of    autumn,    ev'ry where,    harmonic 

colors  weaves. 

'Tis  God's  great  oratorio,  and  ev'ry  bosom  thrills; 
The  chorus  of  the  valleys,  halleluiah  of  the  hills. 

The  Lord  is  in  His  temple,  and  the  heav'nly  veil 

of  blue 
Is  floating  on  His  mountain  throne,  with  leaves 

of  ev'ry  hue  ; 
And  ev'ry  home  an  altar  stands,  the  altar  fire 

aglow, 
Caught  from  the  splendor  of  the  sun  on  hills  and 

vales  below. 

The  vernal  hymn,  the  summer  song,  and  autumn's 

anthem  grand, 
Are  mingled  in  a  psalm  of  life  that  rolls  o'er  sea 

and  land; 
While   "Holy,    holy,    holy!"    the    winds    and 

waters  sing, 
The  white  clouds  floating  over  all,  like  angels  on 

the  wing. 

51 


The  breeze  inspires  the  chorus,  and  the  swaying 

boughs  beat  time  ; 
The  hills  and  vales,  ay,  earth  and  sky,  all  blend 

in  picture  rhyme; 
The  leaves  are  holding  carnival,  rejoicing  nature 

thrills, 
Hosanna  in  the  valleys,  halleluiah  on  the  hills  ! 


MANY  IN  ONE. 

Proud  waves  of  Britannia, 

The  Emerald  Isle, 
The  Alps,  and  the  Vineland, 

Fair  Italy's  smile, 
The  Rhine's  own  blue  waters, 

Slav  snowlands  and  sea — 
The  land  of  all  lands  is 

The  Land  of  the  Free ! 

The  songs  of  Slavonia, 

The  "  God  Save  The  Queen," 
The  Marsel'aise  war  hymn, 

And  "  Wearing  The  Green," 
The  Fatherland's  dear  songs — 

All  these  loved  may  be, 
But  the  song  of  all  songs  is 

The  Song  of  the  Free  ! 

52 


The  flag  of  Germania, 

The  flag  with  the  cross, 
Of  England,  of  Russia, 

The  Crescent,  and  Joss — 
The  flags  of  all  nations 

Are  woven  in  thee, 
O  Star  Spangled  Banner, 

The  flag  of  the  free  ! 

The  love  for  Germania, 

For  Erin,  for  Gaul, 
The  love  for  Britannia, 

The  Norselands  and  all — 
Wherever  the  homeland, 

Whatever  it  be, 
Here  all  blend  in  one  love, 

The  love  of  the  Free  ! 

MEMORIAL  DAY. 

[Written  at  the  request  of  the  Committee  of  the  first  Inter-State  G.  A.  R. 
Encampment  in  the  Central  West.  The  author  read  it  Memorial  Day  to  the 
throng  of  soldiers  and  citizens  to  whom  he  makes  this  acknowledgment.] 

I. 

A  coy  love-maiden,  rich  in  beauty's  dow'r, 

With  fawn-like  step,  goes  to  the  trysting  place, 
Adorned  with  virgin  sweets  to  deck  the  hour 

For  one  who  claims  the  blush  upon  her  face, — 
So  glides  fair  Spring  from  out  the  twilight  shades 

That  dim  the  future  to  our  mortal  ken, 
Her  coquette  smiles  she  with  her  garlands  braids, 

And  steals,  all  blooming,  to  the  hearts  of  men. 

53 


II. 

Not  all  thine  own,  O  Virgin  of  the  years  ! 

These  love-twined  off' rings  of  the  flowery  May; — 
Our  praises  thine;  oar  garlands  and  our  tears 

Are  for  our  dead,  this  Decoration  Day. 

III. 

Not  with  the  songs  of  victors 

Bearing  the  spoils  of  war; 
Not  with  our  captive  f  oemen 

Chained  to  a  conq'ror's  car; 
Not  with  triumphal  banners; 

Not  with  a  blood-stained  sword; 
Not  with  the  shouts  of  conquest 

By  maddened  throngs  encored; 
Not  to  recall  the  mem'ries 

That  ne'er  can  fade  away — 
Not  to  re-crown  our  heroes 

We  gather  here  to-day. 

IV. 

Ah,  no !  We  come  as  patriots  to  the  altar  of  the 

free, 
With  incense  for  the  sacrifice  we've  made  for 

liberty. 
We  come  as  gray-haired  fathers  to  the  sepulchers 

of  sons; 
We  come  as  weeping  mothers  to  the  graves  of 

darling  ones; 

54 


We  come  as  mourning  widows  to  the  love  that 

earth  consumes; 
We  come  as  sons  of  heroes  to  our  father's  honored 

tombs. 
We  come,  a  grateful  people,  to  pay  tribute  to  the 

brave 
Who  purchased  Union  for  us  with  the  precious 

lives  they  gave. 

V. 

Alas  !  not  all  are  here;  some  loved  ones  sleep 
Far  from  the  tears  that  fall  from  those  who  weep. 
Upon  the  fields  once  crimson  with  their  blood; 
'Neath  waves  they  colored  with  life's  purple  flood; 
Or  fill  the  pits  near  some  old  prison  pen, 
Where  ling' ring  death  made  martyrs  of  our  men; 
Or  on  the  picket  line,  in  some  dark  wood, 
Unwarned  they  fell,  and  lie  near  where  they  stood. 
We  strew  with  flow'rs  the  graves  of  these  alone; 
Of  pray' rs  and  tears  we  give  to  those — unknown. 

VI. 

From  out  the  silence  of  the  slumb'ring  past 

There  comes  a  sound  like  murm' rings  of  the  sea, 
When  o'er  the  sky  the  storm-clouds,  flying  fast, 
Arouse  the  waves  to  answer  sullenly. 
Ah,  listen !  As  the  echoes  fuller  flow 
They  seem  a  sigh  and  then  the  voice  of  woe. 
A  nation's  voice  entreating  with  her  sons, — 
The  children  quar'ling  on  the  mother's  breast; 

55 


Her  pleas  unheeded  by  the  wayward  ones, 
Till  passion  reigns  and  riots  unrepressed. 
The  voices  of  the  years  from  out  the  past 

Are  heard  more  near  and  clear  and  audibly. 
Oh  hear  !  alarum  calls — the  bugle  blast, — 
The  tramp  of  armies — charging  cavalry  ! 
The  beat  of  drums  comes  throbbing  on  the 

ear — 

The  roar  of  battle  swelling  full  and  clear; 
The  shouts,   the  groans,  and  thunder- crash 

we  hear 
Of  bursting  shells  and  grand  artillery  ! 

The  nation  struggles  in  the  throes  of  war; 
From  North,  from  South,  and  from  the  East  and 

West 

The  armies  rush  like  waves  that  sweep  afar, 
Storm-sped,  the  sea;  mid-ocean,  crest  to  crest, 
They  meet  and  break,  fall  tempest-spent  to 

rest, 
And  Ruin,  Death  the  reigning  conq'rors  are. 

With  drums 'unsnared  and  bugles  all  unslung, 
The  arms  are  stacked,  the  columns  disarray, 
The  nation  lives,  bathed  in  the  blood  of  sons, 
Her  grievous  wounds  slow  healing  day  by  day. 
And  Peace  enfolds  us  in  her  downy  wings, 
The  husbandman  about  his  labor  sings, 
The  sound  of  industry  and  art  around  us  rings; 
About  the  house  the  happy  children  play, 
The  wheels  of  Progress  roll  upon  their  way. 

56 


VII. 
Within  our  hearts  some  glowing  mem'ries  burn 

Of  crucial  days,  when  Union  strength  was  tried ; 
And  Shiloh,  Corinth,  Gettysburg  return, 

With  Vicksburg  and  Winchester's  glorious  ride! 
And  some  are  here  who  won  immortal  fame 
At  Pea  Ridge,  Missionary,  and  Ringgold, 
Whom  Grant    re-christened   with    the    prouder 

name, 

"  The  first  at  Chickasaw  Bayou," — were  told 
To  write  it  on  the  banners  which  were  borne 
Atop  old  Lookout,  where,  above  the  cloud, 
It  followed  Hooker,  blood-stained,  battle  torn, 
And  o'er  our  heroes  floated,  conquest-proud, 
Along  the  march  with  Sherman  to  the  sea  : 
O  brave,  heroic  men  !  0  fadeless  memory  ! 

VIII. 
My  countrymen,  all  who  hold  Union  dear, 

How  low  we  prize  this  boon  of  liberty  ! 
We  count  the  cost  in  dollars,  year  by  year, — 

Forget  the  priceless  blood  paid  lavishly. 
We  boast  a  government  like  Heaven's,  where 

All  rights  are  equal  with  the  rich  and  poor; 
We  build  our  homes  and  bring  our  treasures  there, 

Nor  pause  to  think  what  makes  our  own  secure. 
Yet  ev'ry  blessing  we  enjoy  to-day 

Was  born  of  death, — with  blood  is  sanctified. 
Our  hearth-stones  rest  upon  our  fathers'  clay, 

And  we  inherit  all  for  which  they  died. 

57 


IX. 
The  cost  of  Union  !  Oh,  behold  the  dead, 

Her  ransom  paid  in  fratricidal  war  ! 
And  count  the  blood-drops,  each  a  ruby  red, 

In  value  more  than  India's  jewels  are  ! 
And  name  the  toils  her  worshipers  have  borne 
On  land  and  sea,  all  wrought  with  bleeding 

hands ! 

And  tell  the  woes  of  all  the  hearts  that  mourn, 
And  count    their  tears,    unnumbered    as    the 

sands ! — 

And  when  in  poor,  cold  calculation  lost, 
To  this  return — Her  price  is  'bove  all  cost. 

X 

Yea,  Union  !  rarest,  best  gift  of  the  gods, 

The  prize  of  life  when  '  tis  compared  with  Thee 
Becomes  a  choice  ignoble  as  the  clods 

The  brutish  beast  doth  spurn  ;  and  yet  there  be 
Base-borns  choose  life  'fore  immortality. 

Not  so  with  these,  thine  own  true  worshipers; 
They  chose  Thee  first,  above  all  earthly  good, 

And  made  for  Thee,  these  brave  idolaters, 
The  sacrificial  off' ring  of  their  blood. 

XI. 
"  Sleep  on,  now,  and  take  your  rest;"  * 

For  the  marching  and  conflict  are  o'er; 
No  alert,  stealthy  foe  shall  your  fortress  invest, 
Nor  a  fear  of  surprise  shall  your  slumber  molest, 

Never  battle-cry  waken  ye  more. 

*  Matt.,  xxvi.  45. 

58 


Oh  !  we  know  that  your  sleep  must  be  sweet, 

After  service  so  loyal  and  true; 
While  your  country's  proud  honors  are  laid  at 

your  feet, 
And  the  prayers  and  blessings  the  millions  repeat, 

Flower  fragrant,  are  offered  for  you. 

Here,  e'er  brightest  the  golden  rays  fall, 
With  a  lingering  kiss  for  each  grave; 
And  the  moonbeams  just  here  are  the  softest  of  all, 
Sentry  stars  guard  ye  nightly  on  Heaven's  high 

wall, 
For  they  watch  o'er  the  sleep  of  the  brave. 

Here,  flowers  in  red,  white,  and  blue, 
Of  the  "  Old  Flag"  wave  overhead; 
And  the  wild  birds  sing  sweetest,  and  saddest, 

here,  too, 
And  the  breezes  sigh  softly  and  drop  the  bright 

dew, 
Like  tears,  on  the  graves  of  the  dead. 

And  the  pale  autumn  leaves  fall,  and  fold 

Bivouacked  braves,  like  the  blankets  of  gray; 
And  the  winter  snow  wraps  ye  secure  from  the 

cold, 
While  the  winds  pipe  the  martial  airs  stepped 

brave  and  bold 
When  ye  marched  to  the  front  of  the  fray. 

59 


Haloed  Liberty,  throned  in  the  skies, 

With  the  angels,  a  fond  vigil  keeps  ; 
They  heav'n  hallow  the  spot  where  each  soldier 

son  lies, 
And  they  watch  o'er  them  ever  with  unweary 

eyes — 
For  their  love  neither  slumbers  nor  sleeps. 

Do  ye  dream,  oh  !  ye  brave,  of  the  fair, 

While  ye  wait  in  the  cKambers  of  death  ? 
Are  the  visions  of  glory  alluring  ye  there 
As  they  did  on  the  field  when  ye  fell  leading 

where 
Ye  pursued  and  won  Fame's  fleeting  breath  ? 

Do  the  blessings  we  breathe  in  our  pray'r 

Follow  down  through  the  gates  of  the  tomb  ? 
Do  the  words  of  the  brave  and  the  tears  of  the 

fair, 
And  the  fragrance   of  flowers,    perfuming   the 

air, 
Pass  the  sentries  of  silence  and  gloom  ? 

Oh  !  out  of  the  voiceless  ye  speak 

With  a  fervor  no  mortal  can  tell. 
O  rest,  REST,  Boys  in  Blue  !  Our  poor  words  are 

weak; 
With  a  pray'r  on  the  lip  and  a  tear  on  the  cheek, 

So  we  bless  ye,  O  brave  hearts,  who  fell ! 

60 


Far  away,  in  that  peace-reigning  Land, 

May  your  columns  unbroken  unite; 
May  your  names  on  the  Roster  of  Heaven  all 

stand, 
And  the  Army  in  Blue  there,   a  spirit-throng 

grand, 
Form  and  march  a  great  army  in  white. 

XII. 

Bear  hither,  now,  the  brightest  flow'rs  of  spring, 

And  wreathe  the  colors  which  they  loved  so  dear, 
And  lay  them  down,  an  incense  offering, 

Upon  their  graves;  and  give  a  grateful  tear, 
Heart-warm  and  true,  to  heroes'  memory. 

Oh,  pass  with  reverent  steps  the  soldier's  couch, 
Where  hallowed  dust  is  resting  peacefully, 

And  wind  your  garlands  with  a  holy  touch, 
As  though  you  crowned  the  Cross  of  Calvary. 

To  save  us  Heaven,  there  He  was  crucified; 
To  save  us  Union,  all  unselfishly, 

These  offered  up  their  lives  and  died. 

Here  let  us  pause,  and  o'er  their  ashes  bow, 
While  they  implead,  as  may  the  silent  dead, 

That  foes  be  friends.     And  with  uncovered  brow, 
In  flowers  united  and  in  tears  here  shed, 

Let  us  renew  the  solemn,  sacred  vow, 

To  live,  as  they  have  died,  that  Union  now, 
And  Union  henceforth  shall  forever  be  : 
A  Union,  and  a  Nation  of  the  FEEE. 

61 


WOMAN. 

One  rosy  morn  that  oped  earth's  primal  year, 

God  sat  upon  His  throne  of  golden  rays, 
And  viewed  His  realm  of  thronging  silver  spheres, 

And  heard  them  hymning  their  creator's  praise. 
The  new  born  world  was  floating  'neath  the  throne 

Endowed  with  all  His  fulness,  Eden  blessed; 
His  noblest  work  the  scepter  swayed  alone, 

Man,  formed  of  God,  his  image  self -expressed. 

It  was  "  all  good."    Infinity  was  filled 

All-glorious,  around,  beneath,  above; 
A  universe  the  Master- Workman  willed, 

And  wrought  of  wisdom,  beauty,  grace,  and  love. 
Where  would  a  hue  adorn  the  lily's  bloom  ? 

What  melody  the  wild  bird's  song  amend  ? 
What  fragrant  sweet  enhance  the  flow'rs'  perfume? 

What  other  good  nowwith  earth's  fullness  blend? 

But  God  resolved  to  better  what  was  good, 

And  touch  perfection  with  a  grace  supreme; 
So  crowned  creation  with  fair  Womanhood, 

Gave  her  to  earth  to  bless  it,  and  redeem. 
Last  from  His  hand,  transcending  all  He  gave, 

God's  love andgoodness  inEarth-beauty dressed; 
Last  near  His  Cross,  the  first  to  find  His  grave; 

Mother,  man' s  first  love — Wife,  his  last  and  best. 
62 


CHRISTMAS  WITH  MY  OLD  MOTHER. 

Oh  !  I  never  felt  so  happy  as  upon  last  Christmas 

night, 

Coming  near  the  little  home  where  mother  lives, 
The  familiar  scenes  of  boyhood  and  the  window 

with  the  light, 

And  the  joy  anticipation  ever  gives. 
Eager  fingers  tingled  gladly  as  I  opened  the  old  gate, 

And  my  feet,  impatient,  hurried  to  the  door; 
Bather  ear  had  caught  my  footstep  and  her  love 

remembered  well; 
On  the  threshold  mother  met  me  as  before. 

Oh !  I  clasped  her  to  my  bosom  as  she  used  to 

clasp  her  boy, 
While  her  tears  and  loving  kisses  answered 

mine. 
Then  she  led  me  to  the  table,  where  the  good 

things  kept  for  me 

Were  all  waiting  with  the  chair  of  auld  lang  syne. 
She  remembered  ev'ry thing  I  liked,  and  how  to 

make  it  best, 
Serving   me  as  though  my   place  was  still  a 

child's: 
Cakes  and  jellies,  home-made  candy,  and  ev'ry 

choicest  thing, 
Heaped  before  me  with  caresses  and  her  smiles. 


O  !  I  seemed  a  very  boy  again  as  we  sat  talking 

there, 
And  she  told  how  she  had  thought  of,  prayed  for 

me; 
How  I'd  been  a  joy  and  comfort  to  her  all  her 

widowed  life; 

And  her  spirit,  like  an  angel's,  I  could  see. 
How  in  ev'ry  whistling  boy  that  passed  she  heard 

me  coming  home, 

So  she  had  love- waited  for  me  all  the  years; 
Then,  arising  from  the  table,  she  would  stand 

caressing  me, 

As  she  breathed  on  me  a  blessing  through  her 
tears. 

When  I  went  to  bed  she  came  to  me  and  tucked 

the  covers  'round, 

In  the  soothing  way  that  only  mothers  know, 
Oh !  I  felt  so  blissful,   peaceful,  and  so  full  of 

tender  love, 

That  all-silent  came  my  full  heart's  overflow. 
Happy,  grateful,  joyful  tears  I  shed:  yea,  cried 

myself  to  sleep, 
Dreaming  in  a  heav'nly  dreamland  free  from 

cares; 
In  my  boyhood  home  and  bed  again,  the  covers 

tucked  around, 
Safely  guarded  by  my  dear  old  mother's  prayers. 


64 


JOAN  OF  ARC. 

[Pronounce — Jesu,  Ya-su;  Marie,  Mary;  Or-le-ans ;  Compiegne,  Com-pe- 
ane ;  Vaucouleurs,  Vo-coo-ler ;  Eouen,  Ru-en;  Troyes,  Trwa;  Beauvais, 
Bova.] 

[Scene  1st :  The  Maid's  soliloquy  on  leaving  home.  Joan  on  the  hills 
with  her  flocks.] 

Joanna  finds  no  rest.     The  voices  come, 
They  whisper  in  her  ear  the  heavenly  call, 
And  all  the  day  they  bid  her  do  God's  will. 
My  saints,  good  Cath'rine  and  sweet  Margaret, 
Appear  in  angel  visions  to  entreat, 
And  press  the  holy  mission,  "  Go,  save  France ! " 
Oh  !  can  it  be  a  humble  peasant  girl 
Whose  life  has  been  to  watch  her  grazing  flocks 
On  flow'ry  hills,  or  in  the  woody  vales, 
Is  called  of  Heaven  to  lead  great  armies  on  ? 
Seers  say  that  France,  by  wicked  woman  lost, 
A  virgin  pure  shall  save,  her  king  re-crown. 
A  peasant  maid  shall,  at  her  own  life's  cost, 
Beat  with  her  banner  English  archers  down. 
Since  'tis  with  weakest  things   God  rules  the 

strong, 

He  with  a  shepherd  maid  may  overthrow 
The  English  might,  and  save  all-bleeding  France. 
Last  night  I  saw  in  dreams  our  cities  sacked, 
And  British  greed,  insatiate  with  the  spoils, 
Made  confiscate  our  proud  ancestral  homes. 

65 


Their  swords  were  dripping  with  my  kinsmen's 

blood, 
And    trampling    hopeful    fields,    and    vintage 

grounds, 

They  drove  their  captives  at  wide  ruin's  front, 
And  made  them  waste  the  children's  growing 

bread. 

I  saw  Orl'ans,  key  city  of  our  land, 
Beleaguered  by  the  foe.     Engirdling  death 
Pressed  in  the  walls  and  ravaged  near  and  far. 
King  Henry  Fifth's  three-handed  fiend  of  war, 
Fire,  Famine,  Ruin,  blasted  blooming  spring, 
And  made  our  fertile  land  a  darkened  waste  ; 
Save  here  and  there  alone  some  hardy  twigs 
Put  forth  green  leaves  about  a  blackened  trunk, 
Like  children  clinging  to  a  mother  dead. 
And  when  I  weeping  woke,  the  voices  said, 
"  Save  Orleans ! "     I  can  no  longer  doubt ; 
The  vows  of  God  are  on  me,  I  must  go. 
And  I  will  go — 0  Jesu,  Marie  ! 
Let  me  but  feel  the  Arm  Unseen  uphold, 
Thine  eye  o'erwatching  all  my  thorny  path, 
A  waiting  blessing  when  my  trials  end, 
Or  welcoming  to  glory  when  I  fall — 
And  with  my  woman's  faith  I  will  begin 
The  dark  and  danger- clouded  way  alone  ! 
Leave  home  and  friends  !     Dissever  all  the  ties 
My  childhood  years  have  bound  ! — an  exile  go 
From  all  that  I  have  ever  known  and  loved  ! 

66 


Farewell,  ye  hills,  whose  forms  I  know  so  well ! 
Upon  whose  breast  I  've  watched  the  dark-eyed 

Eve 

Meet  Golden  Day,  and  kiss  him  long  good-bye 
When  he  took  leave, — as  I  must  now  of  you  ! 

0  leafy  vales,  ye  have  bent  over  me 

With  cooling  breath,  and  cradled  me  to  sleep, 

And  heard  the  voices  of  these  later  years 

Communing  with  me,  wooing  me  away  ! 

How  like  your  shadow's  chill  crept  over  me, 

Lies  now  this  parting  sadness  on  my  heart ! — 

Farewell,  my  bleating  charge,  my  gentle  lambs  ! 

No  more  Joanna  now  shall  lead  ye  forth, 

Nor  bear  the  yeanling  bosomed  from  the  storm, 

Nor  call  ye  to  the  shelf  ring  fold  at  night ! 

Ye  fields,   ye    fruits  and    flowers,  my  father's 

house, 

The  birds  about  the  eaves — my  mother ! — home  ! — 
Farewell ! — farewell ! 

O  good,  All-loving  Lord, 
Forgive  the  tears  Joanna  cannot  stay  ! 
Right  willing  is  her  spirit  to  obey, 
But  parting  wrings  the  heart !     0  strengthen  her, 
And  let  her  lean  upon  Thee  all  the  way  ! — 
Oh,  hark  !  the  heavenly  voices  comfort  me  ! 
The  smiling  faces  of  my  saints  approve  ! 

1  go  to  succor  France,  sent  from  above. 


67 


BETRAYAL   OF  JOAN  AT   COMPEIGNE. 

[The  officers,  jealous  of  her  success,  induce  Joan  to  lead  a  sortie 
through  the  gates,  then  treacherously  close  them  behind  her,  shutting  her 
out  alone.  The  Bergundians  capture  her.] 

Come  on,  my  brave,  ye  follow  La  Pucelle  ! 
My  king  of  heaven  commands  me  lead  ye  forth  ! 
Behold  the  open  gate,  and  yond  our  wall 
The  sieging  Bergund  foe  !     Will  soldiers  now 
Bleach  out  and  fear  to  do  what  woman  dares  ? 
Have  ye  forgot  Orl'ans  ?  and  how  my  name 
Made  Bergunds  there  desert  the  English  cause  ? 
And  when  the  snowy  dove  came  floating  down, 
And  perched  upon  my  banner  in  the  charge, 
Ye  all  do  know  God  made  it  consecrate  ! 
For  when  I  gained  the  front  where  beaten  down 
Ye  turned  despairing  from  the  English  blows, 
No  sooner  touched  the  wall  this  holy  wand, 
Than,  like  as  Moses  opened  wide  the  sea, 
It  made  through  crested  foes  a  conq'ring  way  ! 
Victorious,  ye  followed  it  at  Meun, 
At  Jergeau,  Beaugency,  and  proud  Patay  ; 
And  ere  a  season's  change,  defeat  unknown, 
Ye  freed  all-ravaged  Prance  beyond  the  Loire. 
Look  ye,  the  Bergunds  see  our  portals  wide, 
And  charge  upon  our  walls  !     Now  let  us  cry 
Patay  and  Compeigne,  and  meet  them  there, 
Outside  the  gate,  with  "  Jesu,  Marie !  " 
As  Isra'l's  pillared  cloud  of  old  did  lead, 
My  snow-white  banner  goes  before  this  day  ; 
Fight  where  its  lilies  wave,  and,  under  God, 

68 


'Twill  float  above  a  glory  field  to-night! 
Come,  die  for  France  and  live  immortally, 
Or  live  as  serfs,  and  die  eternally  ! 

Go  back,  Bergundian  foes,  this  land  is  ours, 
Ruled  by  my  King  of  Heaven  !     If  ye  will  fight 
'Gainst  Him,  behold  our  welcome  out  the  wall! — 
O  saints,  the  gate  is  barred  !     Shut  out  alone — 
Betrayed  by  traitors  !     Jesu  ! — Marie  ! — 
Mine  hour  is  come,  my  fateful  month  of  May  ! 
Yaucouleurs,  Orleans,  now  Compeigne  ! — 
Once  more,  then  Paradise  ! — Poor  La  Pucelle, 
When  with  your  flocks,  how  many  storms  you 

braved 

To  bear  a  bleating  lamb  within  the  fold, 
And  now  shut  out,  with  none  to  hear  your  cry  !— 
O  bleeding    France,     who    now  will    bind   thy 

wounds  ? 

Back!  back!  profane  Bergundians!  Your  hands 
Pollute  the  Maid  of  Orleans  !     Withhold  ! 
Or  leaping  from  this  lily-bordered  cloud 
Will  flash  the  smiting  bolts  of  Heaven's  King  ! 
Alas,  my  voices  come  to  me  no  more  ! — 
O  Jesu,  like  to  Thee,  at  last  betrayed, 
And  by  the  people  I  was  sent  to  save, 
Delivered  to  mine  enemies  ! — Lead  on  ; 
To  Calv'ry  now  I  bear  my  heavy  cross. 


69 


MARTYRDOM   OF  JOAN. 

[Scene :    Joan  at  the  stake,   surrounded  by  executioners,    soldiers, 
priests,  citizens  of  Rouen.] 

Joanna  here  must  die.  These  stony  priests, 
And  bristling  soldier  ranks,  by  frowning  mass 
Of  English  faces  pressed,  show  mercy's  end. 

0  Rouen,  Rouen,  must  thou  be  from  hence 
The  doorless  home  wherein  I  must  abide  ? 

1  fear  that  for  my  death  the  storms  to  come 
Will  wrack  thee  more  than  my  low,  grassy  roof. 
Forgive  me  all  good  people  !     And,  all  priests, 

I  beg  the  mass  for  poor  Joanna's  soul ! 

To  this  end  was  I  born  :  to  die  for  France. 

For  thirteen  years  the  saints  have  thus  fore 
warned. 

They  called  me  from  Domremey's  bleating  hills, 

And  led  me  on  through  bloody  fields  of  war. 

Thrice  seven  days  learn' d  men  of  God  did  prove  ; 

Sent  questing  monks  to  search  my  peasant  life  ; 

Then  set  their  seal  I  was  divinely  called. 

The  holy  dove  came  down  at  Orleans  ; 

White  butterflies  bear  witness  at  Troyes  ; 

The  wisest  great  ones  have  attested  me  ; 

The  kings  unthroned  have  begged  me  reinstate  ; 

The  nations  asked  me  name  the  rightful  pope  ; 

My  lily  banner  ruled  the  chance  of  war, 

N"or  knew  defeat  till  Charles  was  crowned  at 
Rheims  ; 

Nor  did  I  have,  or  hope  for  recompense, 

Except  the  smile  of  Grod  in  saving  France. 

70 


So  Heaven's  King,  with  all  these  mighty  signs, 
Approve  the  doing  ye  condemn  this  day. 
Ye've  not  judged  fair,  denied  my  plea  to  Rome. 
For  three  score  days  I  have  been  dungeon-chained, 
Debarred  from  mass,  from  woman's  face,  rude 

guards, 

With  sleepless  watch,  so  hired,  upbraiding  me. 
And  yet  ye  found  no  poor  excuse  for  death, 
Until  your  surpliced  craftsmen  forged  the  tale. 
Ye  pledged  me  freedom  and  the  Eucharist, 
If  I  would  change  my  garb  for  woman's  dress  ; 
And  though  my  voices  bade  me  keep  my  robe, 
I  yielded  to  the  hope,  and  was  ensnared. 
Ye  gave  it  out  I  had  abjured,  changed  dress, 
Then  gave  me  no  exchange  ;  but  to  my  cell 
Brought  tools  to  swear  I  wore  man's  dress  again. 
On  this  false  charge  am  I  adjudged  to  burn. 
Ah,  cruel  England,  and  ungrateful  France, 
Not  I,  but  you  at  Rouen  have  been  tried  ! 
For  all  the  tribune  that  condemned  me  there, 
From  judges  to  recorders  of  the  wrong, 
Were  French  ;  but  princes,  captains,  statesmen,  all 
Who  bribed  the  judges,  threat'ning  death  to  him 
That  whispered  mercy's  plea,  were  Englishmen  ! 
Ah,  dark  Beauvais,  my  vict'ries  lost  for  you 
A  diocese  !     Will  my  death  win  you  one  ? 
This  is  my  last  campaign,  and  not  untried 
I  come  a  warrior  to  this  holy  war. 
Two  Mays  ago  I  saved  Oii'ans  and  France ; 
My  voices  said  this  May  oped  Paradise. 

71 


I've  suffered  much  from  evil-minded  men, 
But  known  right  little  the  hid  face  of  Christ. 
I  can  say  nothing  else  than  I  have  said 
From  first  until  my  death : — I  came  from  God. 

O  most  sweet  Lord,  and  if  Thou  lovest  me, 
I  pray  Thee  tell  me  what  to  answer  more  ! 
As  for  this  dress,  by  Thy  commandment,  Lord, 
I  know  it  was  put  on  ;  but  I  know  not 
How  best  to  leave  it  now — help  me,  I  pray  ! 

Alas  !  is  there  no  mercy  \    Must  I  die 
So  hard  a  death  ?    This  virgin  casket  yield, 
With  all  its  jewel  wealth  of  maiden  charms  ? 
The  airy  step  \  the  arm  of  graceful  strength  ? 
The  ringing  voice  \   glad  health  ?    good  heart  ? 

sweet  hope  ? 

And  all  the  pulsing  life  my  being  knows, 
To  burn  and  shrivel  in  consuming  flame  ? 
Beauvais,  it  is  by  thee  I  die.     Oh,  spare  ! 
Death  is  so  hard  a  thing,  we  fear  enough 
When,  in  the  latest  night,  he  softly  comes 
To  kindly  snuff  our  flick' ring  candle  out ! 
Why,  then,  with  torture  multiply  my  woes  ? 
Oh,  choose  some  gentler  way  to  serve  your  cause 
Than  burning  with  profane,  revengeful  zeal, 
This  temple  Christ  himself  did  dedicate! 
Ah,  hear  yon  bell  now  calling  souls  to  God  ! 
The  peaceful  wooing  of  the  pleading  tones  ! 
How  sweetly  to  His  presence  He  doth  call ! 
Yet  will  ye  send  me  there  a  torture  way  ? 

72 


No  pity  shown  ?    Ah,  yes,  behold  the  tears 

Of  executioners,  and  soldiers  steeled  ! 

And  weeping  mercy  melts  the  hating  throng  ! 

Beauvais  alone  is  flint ! — Why,  then,  go  on  ! 

My  voices  whisper,  "  Child  of  God,  fear  not 

Thy  martyrdom  ;  for  we  will  bring  thee  now 

In  flaming  chariot,  glorying  to  God  !  " 

Good  father  Pierre,    bring  from   the  church  a 

cross 

And  hold  it  lifted  straight  before  mine  eyes, 
That  through  the  last,  dark,  trembling  steps  of 

death, 

My  soul  may  go  still  looking  to  the  Lord  ! 
Stay,  here  is  one. — 0  precious  Cross  of  Christ ! 
I  hallow  thee  with  tears,  anoint  thee  o'er 
With  fragrance  holier  than  the  altar  knows — 
The  virgin  off 'ring  of  my  dying  breath  ! 

The  flames  enthrall  me  !   Oh,  my  blist'ring  feet 
Are  thrust  with  pains,  like   Calv'ry's  piercing 

nails ! 

O  Rouen,  may  my  ashes  bosomed  here, 
Ne'er  breed  rank  curses  on  your  childrens'  heads. 
Oh,  how  this  choking  air  writhes  in  my  breast, 
As  did  the  gall  my  dying  Master  drank  ! 
Lift  up  the  cross  on  high,  I  cannot  see  ! 
O  Jesu — Marie ! — will  death  come  soon  ! 
My  heart    breaks — with    woe  ! — Come   quickly, 

Lord  !- 
Forgive — oh ! — Cath'rine ! — Margaret ! — Jesu  ! — 

73 


DAMON  AND  PYTHIAS. 

I  Written  at  request  of  Sir  Knights  for  annual  Conclave.    Read  by  Ella 
June  Meade.] 

In  the  stories  told  of  the  knights  of  old, 

With  their  armor  bright  and  their  hearts  so  bold  ; 

With  the  sword  and  lance  and  the  song  and  dance, 

And  the  ladies  fair  of  these  brave  gallants  ; 

Of  their  fiery  steeds  and  their  daring  deeds, 

And  their  mottoes  taken  from  Christian  creeds ; 

Of  the  challenge  glove  that  they  threw  to  prove 

Knightly  honor  true,  or  a  gauge  in  love  ; 

Of  their  hate  of  wrong,   and    their  friendship 

strong, 

How  they  ever  helped  those  in  need  along  ;— 
So  the  song  bard  writes,  and  the  world  delights 
In  the  minstrel  fame  of  the  storied  knights. 

Though  the  knights  of  yore  ride  the  list  no  more, 

And  the  armors  rust  that  they  proudly  wore, 

There  is  knighthood  still,  and  chivalric  thrill, 

And  the  sword  and  lance,  but  they  do  not  kill. 

In  the  leal  rites  we  are  all  true  knights, 

And  we  love  the  story  a  bard  recites, 

Of  fraternity  and  of  chivalry, 

However  olden  and  plain  it  be. 

Ye  have  heard  this  told.     'Tis  a  story  old, 

Growing  brighter,  grander,  as  years  have  rolled. 

74 


In  the  Grecian  clime,  and  'twas  in  the  time 

Of  King  Dionysius,  king  of  crime. 

When  his  wily  art  won  the  senate's  heart 

With  republic,  liberty  to  part, 

And  there  bowing  down  under  freedom's  frown, 

To  vote  Dionysius  a  kingly  crown  ; 

When  none  dare  oppose,  then  bold  Damon  rose, 

The  one  patriot,  braving  freedom's  foes. 

' '  Though  I  stand  alone,  ere  thou  take  the  throne, 

Dionysius,  thou  shalt  be  rightly  known. 

Here  I  tell  thee,  king,   though  the  word  doth 

sting, 

Thou  art  that  heartless,  most  dreaded  thing, 
Royal  Tyrant !  "   "  Hold  !  "  cried  the  nobles  old, 
All  dismayed  by  the  hero's  words  so  bold. 
Dionysius  cowed.     Then  the  angry  cloud 
Rushing  o'er  his  brow,  burst  in  thunders  loud. 
"Seize  and  bind  him,    slaves!      'Tis  a  traitor 

raves 

At  the  royal  power  he  madly  braves  !  " 
Quickly  Damon  sprang,  and  his  dagger  sang, 
As  it  sought  the  king,  and  the  slave  shields  rang  ! 
Overcome,  then  bound,  with  the  guards  around, 
'Fore  the  king  brave  Damon,  foredoomed,  was 

found. 

Dionys'us  spake  :    "  Haste,  ye  guardsmen !    Take 
Him  to  instant  death  !     Let  the  cross  ye  make 
Be  for  pain  and  woe.     Forward  !     Let  us  go 
Unto  where  a  man-tree  soon  shall  grow." 


75 


Damon  proudly  smiled:      "Since  ye  judge  so 

mild, 

I  may  beg  three  hours  for  wife  and  child  ? 
E'en  a  tiger,  worst  of  all  brutes,  will  first 
Let  the  victim  play  ere  she  slake  her  thirst." 
" Not  a  moment.     On ! "     "I  will  give  a  pawn 
Of  a  life  made  hostage  while  I  am  gone." 
But,  all  plea  in  vain,  like  a  fun'ral  train, 
They  went  forth  to  the  crucifixion  plain. 

As  they  neared  the  end,  lo  !   the  gods  did  send 
Faithful  Pythias,  Damon's  bosom  friend. 
"Hear  me  now,   O  king,  and  when  time  shall 

bring 

The  dread  messenger  with  the  noiseless  wing, 
To  thy  royal  bed  ;   ere  thou  join  the  dead, 
It  will  ease  thy  soul  if  it  then  be  said 
Thou  hast  mercy  shown.      Ere  the  span  hath 

flown, 

Hear  the  plea  that  one  day  shall  be  thine  own. 
Set  the  pris'ner  free,  I  will  hostage  be, 
And  'tis  but  four  hours  I  ask  of  thee. 
Let  him  go  his  way  to  his  home  and  say 
The  farewell  of  love  that  must  be  for  aye. 
And  when  thou  shalt  learn  that  the  hourly  urn 
Hath  run  four,  and  Damon  doth  not  return, 
Then  no  court  shall  try  ;  no  appeal  will  I, 
But  for  Damon,  Pythias  then  shall  die." 

"It doth  please  me  well.     When  the  urn  shall  tell 
E'en  six  hours,  for  thee  there  is  heaven  or  hell." 

76 


Like  a  bird  when  freed,  on  the  swiftest  steed, 
To  his  wife  and  child  did  brave  Damon  speed. 
But  two  hours  were  lost  ere  the  rein  was  tossed 
To  his  wond'ring  slave,  and  the  threshold  crossed. 

Oh,  that  parting  scene  !  with  their  babe  between, 
So  embraced  they  suffered  the  sorrow  keen. 
What  their  bosoms  stirred,   and    the  fait' ring 

word, 

Only  angels  saw,  only  angels  heard. 
Know  we  only  this,  that  a  ling' ring  kiss 
Hushed  the  sweet  babe's  cry ;  that  her  lips  met 

his ; 
There  their  spirits  clung,  while  their  hearts  were 

wrung, 
And  life-long  farewell  sorrow-stilled  the  tongue. 

The  fourth  hour  died,  and,  with  hasty  stride, 
He  rushed  forth  to  make  the  returning  ride. 
But  Lucullus'  hate,  to  make  Damon  late, 
Killed  the  horse.     Dishonor  and  death  await ! 
No  !  a  traveler  through  rode  a  swift  steed,  too  ; 
And  this  Damon  seized,  and  away  he  flew. 
How  the  shadows  run  from  the  setting  sun  ! 
Can  he  yet  return  ere  the  hours  are  done  ? 
Firm  and  white  his  face,  Time  and  Honor  race, 
And  he  spurs  his  steed  to  a  whirlwind  pace  ; 
For  the  life  at  stake  ;  for  his  honor's  sake  ; 
As  he  rides  the  receding  earth  doth  shake. 
On  the  echoing  height  smiles  the  sunshine  bright, 
Like  a  fun'ral  pall  drawing  o'er  is  night. 

77 


And  the  good  steed  thrills  with  the  thought  that 

fills 

Its  doomed  rider's  heart,  and  it  flings  the  hills 
And  the  vales  behind  ;  like  the  hunter's  hind  ; 
As  the  mountain  torrents  leap  and  wind, 
On  its  course  it  ran.     It  is  more  than  man  ; 
'  Tis  the  gods  to  save  him  if  they  can  ! 

On  his  straining  eyes  like  a  paradise, 
Syracuse  fair  temples  before  him  rise, 
And  upon  the  plain  winds  the  solemn  train 
To  the  crucifixion  cross  again. 
Now  it  wavers,  stands  !     Now  a  pris'ner's  bands 
Are  unloosed  ;  a  cross  rises  o'er  the  sands  ! 
Comes  the  victim  near.     Damon  pales  with  fear, 
For  he  knows  'tis  Pythias.     Can  they  hear  ? 
All  in  vain  his  cry,  for  the  leaves  low  sigh, 
And  a  mocking  echo,  alone  reply. 

He  devours  the  way  ;  will  the  gods  delay 
The  dread  sacrifice  \    Now  the  soldiers  stay 
For  the  tyrant's  word.     Not  a  hand  is  stirred. 
Hark  !     Among  the  hills  a  far  sound  is  heard  ! 
Then  a  ringing  shout  like  a  battle  rout ; 
To  the  level  plain  wildly  rushes  out 
A  foam-covered  steed  ;  and  the  sweat  drops  bead 
His  grim  rider's  face  !     Will  they  hear  and  heed 
His  appealing  cry  ?     "Ho  !  hold  !  hold  !  'tis  I, 
It  is  Damon !     Pythias  shall  not  die  !  " 
See !  they  turn,  they  hear !  And  they  raise  a  cheer ! 
From  the  cross  they  take  him  they  now  revere  ! 

78 


As  joy  parts  the  throng  Damon  speeds  along, 
Until  honor's  arms  enfold  friendship  strong. 
"Live  the  friends!"   is  cried  as  the  tears  are 

dried ; 
And  "  His  horse  henceforth  only  gods  shall  ride  ! " 

The  king  asks  the  cause  of  the  wild  applause, 
Andlo  !  e'en  from  him  Faithful  Friendship  draws 
A  relenting  mood.     "  Here  let  none  intrude. 
Bring  the  pris'ners  now.     E'en  when  woman's 

wooed 
Love  was  ne'er  more  true,  that  the  world  e'er 

knew. 
Ah,  for  love  like  this,  what  would  man  not  do  ?" 

"Bring  them  forth!"  he  said,  and  the  twain 

were  led 

To  the  throne,  to  hear  the  last  sentence  read. 
"  So  ye  came,  in  time  ;  yours  is  love  sublime, 
And  shall  live  in  story  and  deathless  rhyme. 
Though  to  slay  a  king  is  a  monstrous  thing, 
Yet  'tis  lost  in  praise,  so  great  love  doth  bring. 
Ye  shall  both  go  free  ;  and  I  ask  of  thee 
That  the  third  in  Friendship  the  king  may  be." 


79 


MONEY. 

A  Phidias,  with  magic  hand, 

Turned  worthless  marble  into  gold  ; 
A  Raphael,  with  wizard  wand, 

So  changed  a  canvas,  we  are  told. 
The  gift,  God-given,  must  be  right ; 

Then  make  a  million  if  you  can. 
Man  may  make  money,  much,  or  mite  : 

But  money  does  not  make  the  man. 

With  lightning's  power  Edison 

Coins  millions  out  of  airy  sound  ; 
The  Klondike  has  its  nuggets  where 

Brave-hearted  men  have  fortunes  found. 
To  make  it  Soon  don' t  make  it  wrong, 

Nor  Slow  make  right,  whate'er  the  plan. 
Get  honestly,  and  soon,  or  long  ; 

Yet  money  does  not  make  the  man. 

To  earn  or  gain,  by  hand  or  brain, 

Is  Eden's  fiat.     More  or  less 
Is  not  the  law  that  doth  restrain ; 

But  How  we  get  what  we  possess. 
All  wealth,  ill-gotten,  is  a  curse, 

And  is  accursed  if  we  abuse 
The  usance :  hoarded,  it  is  worse. 

Get  right,  use  right,  and  then  you  can 
With  mite,  or  millions,  make  a  man. 
80 


SIGNS  OF  THE  TIMES. 

There's  a  sigh  on  the  breeze  that  is  not  of  the 

breeze, 

There's  a  moan  on  the  wind,  wherever  it  blows 
That  is  not  of  the  wind.     What  is  it?    God 

knows. 
He  is  biding  the  time  that  His  wisdom  decrees. 

There's  a  cry  in  the  night,  like  a  wild  beast  at  bay, 
As  if  maddened  by  hunger,    enraged   by  its 

wounds ; 
But  the  cry  of  the  night  is  as  nought  to  the 

sounds 

Of  the  something  we  somehow  hear  plainly  each 
day. 

There  are  heavenly  tears,  not  the  dew,  nor  the 

rain ; 

He  who  wept  o'er  a  city  may  weep  o'er  a  world. 
Woe,  woe  when  the  doom  of  his  vengeance  is 

hurled — 
The  pray'r  of  the  past  is  not  lifted  in  vain. 

Hark,  the  tramping  of  feet  like  a  marshalling 

host! 
Hear  the  breaking  of  chains  and  the  shout  of 

the  free ! 

Now  behold  man  a  Man,  as  God  made  him  to  be ! 
And  the  Least  is  not  slave  to  the  lord  of  the  Most. 

81 


JOHN  IRVING:   NO  HOME. 

[Founded  on  the  facts,  reported  by  the  city  papers.    A  real,  not  a 
fancy  picture.] 

"What's  the  charge  'gainst  this  man?"  "There 

is  no  charge,  Your  Honor  ; 
He  was  found  on  the  street  an'  had  no  place  to 

go. 
Cryin'  there  like  a  babe,  so  I  guess  he  is  sick, 

Judge ; 
But  he  has  n't  done  nothin'  unlawful,  I  know/' 

"Well,  sir,  what  is  your  name?"     He  arose  in 

his  answer, 
An  old  man  bending  low  with  the  troubles  of 

years ; 
With  the  weight  of  his  woe,  and  his  burden  of 

sorrow ; 

With  the  wreck  of  his  hopes,  and  the  blight  of 
his  tears. 

Long  white  hair  veiled  his  face,  as  the  snow  of 

the  winter 

Covers  glory  departed,  when  summer  is  gone  ; 
In  the  face  was  the  soul,  pleading  there  at  life's 

window, 
Where  they  starve  and  they  die  with  the  world 


looking  on. 


82 


Feebly  clutching  the  rail  to  support  the  gaunt 

body, 
"My  name  's  John  Irving,  sir;"  was  the  old 

man' s  reply ; 
"Well,  sir,  where  is  your  home?"   His  Honor 

said  kindly, 
Showing  pity  he  felt  in  his  voice  and  his  eye. 

"O  I  have  n't  a  home,  sir!     No  place  in  the 

world,  Judge, 
Where  John  Irving  can  lay  down  his  head  and 

find  rest ! 
But  I  once  had  a  home,  and  though  humble, 

'  twas  happy ; 

There  I  loved,  and  was  loved,  by  the  truest  and 
best. 

< '  But  it' s  broken  up,  gone — and  I  am  a  wanderer ! 

I  lost  ev'ry thing  dear  ;  but  nobody  cares  now  ! 

No,  it  wasn't  my  fault,  Judge;  'twas  sickness, 

misfortune  ; 

I  have  lived  by  God's  law  ;  by  the  sweat  of  my 
brow. 

"I  had  friends  ;  but  my  name,  now  I  never  hear 

spoken  ; 

Not  a  full  meal  to  eat  have  I  had  in  a  year. 
Only  send  me  some  place  where  a  kind  word  is 

spoken, 

With  a  roof  and  some  bread ;  for  I  won't  be 
long  here." 


"I've  but  one  place  to  send  you,  and  that  is  the 

prison. 

I  am  sorry ;  T 11  see  that  they  use  you  well  there. ' ' 
Down  the  time- furrowed  cheeks  ran  the  tears  of 

his  answer : 
For  a  kind  word  was  more  than  the  old  man 

could  bear. 

•**#•*•* 

"Where  's  your  home!  "  asked  the  Jailor,  pre 
paring  to  write  it : 
"  My  home  's  now  the  prison, — will  soon  be  the 

grave  !" — 
Then  a  groan,  and  right  there  in  the  Jail  hall  of 

Justice 
He  fell  dead  !    The  injustice  humanity  gave. 

For  he  died  of  Starvation  !    The  card  they  pinned 

on  him, 
As  he  lay  in  the  Morgue,  read,  "  John  Irving : 

no  home." 
Years  of  toiling  and  serving,  then  died  a  Jailed 

Beggar ! 

Earned  a  Palace,  died  Homeless  !   The  lesson — 
Siloam  ! 

In  a  great,  Christian  city,  died  friendless,  of  hunger ! 
Starved  to  death,  where  there  's  many  a  bright 

banquet  hall ! 

In  a  city  of  hospitals,  died  in  a  prison  ! 
Homeless  died  in  a  land  that  boasts  free  homes 
for  all ! 

84 


In  a  city  of  millionaires,  died  without  money  ! 
Died  a  slave  where  the  flag  of  the  free  is  un 
furled  ! 
Yea,  enslaved  by  misfortune,  fell  dead  at  the 

feet  of 
The  Statue  of  Liberty  Enlight'ning  the  World  ! 

With  a  tax  for  the  poor,  the  endowment  of  hos 
pitals, 
It  is  doled  and  "red- taped"  till  philanthropy 

fail. 
With  all  Heathendom  helped  by  the  hand  of  free 

missions, 

Christians  starve  in  the  street  till  they  die  in 
the  jail. 

We  are  paying  and  praying  across    the  wide 

ocean, 

Looking,  helping  afar  for  His  kingdom  to  come. 
While  God's  Angel  Recorder  looks  down  in  our 

doorway, 

And  with  tears  writes    against    us:    "  JOHN 
IRVING:  No  HOME." 

Ope   thy  long-blinded  eyes,   0  thou  Angel  of 

Justice  ! 
And  thou,  Angel  of  Mercy,  0  bend  down  thine 

ear ! 
Thou,   Sweet  Charity,  help   "the  poor  that  ye 

have  with  ye  ;" 
Reach  afar  ;  but  first  succor  the  perishing  near. 

85 


WHAT  IT  IS  TO  BE  POOR. 

Ah,  you  do  not  know  what  it  is  to  be  poor ! 

The  favored  of  fortune  ne'er  feel  the  curse. 
If  you  had  but  borne  all  the  poor  have  borne, 

You'd  be  what  they  are,  or  be  something  worse. 
0  toil  till  your  body  is  racked  with  pain, 

And  moan  where  nobody  but  God  e'er  hears  ; 
Eat  bread  that  is  bought  with  your  own  life 
blood, 

And  drink  of  the  cup  that  is  sweat  and  tears, 
And  then  you  will  wonder  they  so  endure  ; 
For  you  would  not  bear  what  is  borne  by  the  poor. 

Did  you  ever  sew  till  your  eyes  were  blind  ? 
Till  fingers  were  numb  and  your  brain  on  fire  ? 

Repeating  :  "Three  cents  for  each  shirt  I  make  ; 
The  '  lab'rer  is  worthy  of  his  hire  ! ' 

To-morrow  the  rent  for  the  month  is  due, 
No  coal  in  the  house  and  the  snow  drifts  high  ; 

If  I  pay  the  rent  I  can  buy  no  bread- 
On,  but  for  the  children  I'd  dare  to  die  !  " 

No,  no  !  when  the  life  is  a  pleasure  tour, 

One  never  can  know  what  it  is  to  be  poor. 

Have  you  begged  for  work  ?  for  a  plac  e  to  slave, 
Deep  down  in  a  mine  with  death  waiting  there 

Concealed  in  the  gloom  without  sun,  or  star, 
And  lurking  in  rocks  and  the  poisoned  air  ? 
86 


There  burrowed  in  dirt  where  you  breathed  death 
dust, 

From  day  unto  day  and  from  year  unto  year  ? 
Your  home  not  your  own,  and  your  hope  a  crust, 

An  heirloom  of  toil  for  the  children  dear  \ 
When  you  have  thus  slaved,  life  a  desert  moor, 
You'll  know  in  your  heart,  what  it  is  to  be  poor. 

Have  you  watched  alone  till  your  loved  one  died, 

And  then  made  the  box  that  you  could  not  buy, 
And  carried  your  dead  to  the  Potter's  Field, 

With  never  a  hearse,  nor  a  human  nigh  ? 
There  hid  your  own  child  in  a  pauper' s  place, 

You  digging  and  filling  the  little  grave, 
Too  poor  e'en  to  mark  for  your  future  tears 

The  spot  where  you  buried  the  life  you  gave  ? 
No,  no  !     May  God  leave  you  your  own  secure, 
While  you  learn  from  mercy  to  pity  the  poor. 

There  cometh  a  time  when  loved,  lands  and  gold, 

Will  slip  from  us  all  with  a  fleeting  breath  ; 
And  empty  and  helpless,  the  hands  that  fold 

Be  cold  as  a  pauper's  hands  crossed  in  death. 
Then  poor  as  the  poorest,  your  soul  shall  stand 

Where  coin  is  not  current,  and  caste  unknown  ; 
Your  life,  though  like  others,  as  good,  as  grand, 

You'll  scorn,  and  wait  suppliant  at  His  throne. 
Ah,  then  you  will  feel,  you  will  know,  I  'm  sure, 
The  beggar  you'll  be — what  it  is  to  be  poor. 


87 


POORHOUSE  ROCK  ME  TO  SLEEP. 

[A  woman,  a  member  of  a  wealthy  Eastern  family,  being  estranged, 
left  her  home  and  went  West.  Misfortune  swept  away  her  earnings,  and 
in  her  old  age  she  found  a  home  in  the  Poorhouse.  Soon  after,  she  was 
found  one  evening  sitting  by  her  bed,  reading  the  pathetic  poem,  "  Eock  Me 
To  Sleep,  Mother,"  and  weeping.  That  night  the  Death-Angel  came,  and 
the  tired  feet  rested  on  the  "echoless  shore."] 

"Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  rock  me  to  sleep — ): 
Why  does  the  reader  pause,  why  does  she  weep  ? 
Withered  the  quiv'ring  lips,  head  bowing  low, 
Careworn  the  wrinkled  face  where  the  tears  flow ; 
Far  from  her  childhood  home,  old  and  alone, 
No  one,  and  nothing,  to  claim  as  her  own  ; 
Fortune  and  friends  are  all  lost  in  the  past, 
Found  in  her  old  age  the  Poorhouse  at  last. 

"  Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  rock  me  to  sleep!" — 
Asked  as  when  weary  of  playing  "  Bo  Peep  " 
Long,  long  ago,  she  would  turn  to  that  breast, 
Yearning  for  love-words  and  kisses  and  rest ; 
So  she  to-night  is  a  grief-child  once  more ; 
"Mother,  come  back  from  the  echoless  shore ! " 
What  do  her  dim  eyes  see?  what  does  she  hear  ? 
Why  does  she  linger  where  tear  follows  tear  ? 
Over  and  over,  in  sobs  low  and  deep — 
"  Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  rock  me  to  sleep ! " 

Morn  came  :  the  sun,  like  a  fond  mother's  face, 
Smiled  till  Earth  woke  from  the  night's  dark  em 
brace  ; 

88 


Hushed  were  those  lips  in  that  peaceful  repose 
Only  the  friendless  who  finds  it  e'er  knows. 
Mother  had  come  from  the  echoless  shore, 
Clasped  her  again  in  her  arms  as  of  yore  ; 
Open  the  book  lay  beside  the  lone  dead, 
Tear-marked  the  lines  o'er  and  o'er  she  had  read; 
Nevermore  here  e'er  to  wake,  or  to  weep — 
"Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  rock  me  to  sleep !" 

"Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  rock  me  to  sleep  ! " — 
Oh !   when  the  death-shadows  'round  the  heart 

creep ! 

When  all  the  strife  and  the  toiling  are  done, 
Empty  and  prizeless  the  fame  we  have  won  ; 
Friends  whom  we  loved  long  estranged,  or  long 

dead, 

Hopes  that  we  cherished  all  withered  and  fled — 
Fondly  we  turn  to  our  childhood  again, 
Longing  for  love  and  caresses,  as  then  ; 
Once  more  the  words  from  the  longing  heart,  leap: 
"Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  rock  me  to  sleep  ! " 


89 


ANOTHER  BAY  APART. 

A  glow  in  the  east,  in  the  trees  a  song, 

A  hiding  of  trembling  stars, 
The  darkness  is  done  and  the  prisoned  sun 

Is  breaking  the  golden  bars. 
Another  day,  and  far  away 

My  darling,  still  thou  art ! 
How  few  they  be !  why  then  live  we 

Another  day  apart  ? 

The  cloud-flaming  torch  of  the  dying  day 

Burns  low  on  the  western  hill, 
The  shadows  that  creep  from  their  cavern  homes 

Float  down  on  the  canyon  rill. 
Another  day  !  I  sadly  say, 

As  to  my  lonely  heart 
Comes  crowding  in  the  thought  we've  been 

Another  day  apart. 

The  lights  are  all  dim  and  the  voices  low, 

And  softly  the  watchers  tread  ; 
A  clinging  caress  with  the  blinding  tears, 

The  last,  long  good-bye  is  said. 
Another  day  !  another  day  ! 

Tears  will  in  mem'ry  start, 
And  then  alway  a  lone  heart  say, 

"Another  day  apart ! " 

90 


A  windowless  home  where  no  sunlight  comes, 

And  love-joys  are  all  unknown, 
At  rest,  side  by  side,  as  the  seasons  go, 

No  longer  to  be  alone. 
Another  day — another  day — 

Ah  me  !  the  poor  still  heart 
No  more  can  give  a  place  to  live 

Another  day  apart. 


THE  RAILWAY  ENGINEER. 

With  his  armor  bright,  and  a  fiery  steed, 

A  heart  that  is  brave  and  bold, 
He's  a  nobler  knight  in  his  toil-stained  blue 

Than  th'  Cavalier  in  gold. 
He  can  throw  the  gauntlet  that  holds  the  run, 

And  challenge  the  world's  great  clan, 
By  the  test  of  glory's  true  tourney  deeds, 

To  bring  forth  a  manlier  man. 

'Tis  a  snow  white  plume  that  he  wears  by  day, 

At  night  a  red  plume  of  flame  ; 
With  the  motto  "  Duty,"  upon  his  shield, 

Below,  "The  Unknown,"  his  name. 
And  the  inky  mane  of  his  panting  steed 

Floats  out  on  the  rushing  wind, 
As  the  echoed  neigh  and  the  ringing  shoe, 

Tell  the  hills  that  are  flung  behind. 

91 


Oh  !  he  rides  the  front  of  the  world's  advance, 

The  modern  personified ; 
With  the  stains  of  strife  for  the  good  of  men, 

His  knightlier  hands  are  dyed. 
You  may  tell  in  story,  you  may  sing  in  song, 

Of  th'  courtly  Cavalier  ; 
But  the  haloed  hero  in  God's  great  clan, 

Is  the  bold,  brave  engineer. 


THE  WIDOW'S  COW  IN  THE  POUND. 

4  Tis  thrue !  they  hev  takin  me  cow,  suhr  ! 

They  drove  her  roight  off  to  the  pound  ! 
An'  how  Oi  wilj  git  her,  God  knows,  suhr, 

Oi  havn't  a  dollar  around  ! 
The  officer's  cost,  an'  her  kapin, 

Foive  days  she  has  been  from  me  now, 
Is  more  than  me  whole  washin'  airnins  : 

They've  ordhered  the  sale  iv  the  cow  ! 

Out  here  all  the  lots  are  shtill  open, 

There's  only  me  little  hut  near  ; 
The  cow  couldn't  bother  a  neighbor, 

The  grass  goes  to  waste  all  the  year. 
An'  yit,  way  out  here  the  Pound  Hawkers 

Hev  coom  f uhr  the  sake  iv  their  pay, 
An'  takin  the  cow  from  the  childer, 

Fuhr  atin  the  grass  by  the  way  ! 

92 


They  rhoide  by  the  rich  breakin'  law,  suhr, 

Roight  there  in  the  heart  iv  the  town  ; 
They're  savin'  the  grass  on  the  common, 

Whoile  souls  on  the  square  are  thramped  down ; 
There's  dhrinkin',  an'  gamblin',  an'  rhobbin', 

All  croimes  dhraggin'  men  down  to  hell, 
But  t'  kape  up  the  town  an'  the  law,  suhr, 

The  poor  widow's  cow  they  must  sell ! 

The  woman  in  scarlet  an'  jewels, 

Who's  bhreakin',  not  only  the  law, 
But  hearts  iv  the  woives,  an'  the  mithers, 

She  was  not  the  woman  they  saw  ! 
They  passed  by  Tier  house,  an'  its  shplendor ; 

Her  trespassin'  they  couldn'  t  see  ; 
But  out  in  the  hut  on  the  common, 

They  found  a  poor  widow  loike  me ! 

The  cow  was  the  one  hilp  Oi  had,  suhr, 

The  childer  all  too  shmall  to  work ; 
An'  not  bein'  shtrong,  to  support  'em, 

Oi  've  had  to  live  hard,  an'  not  shirk. 
Oi've  takin  in  washin',  an'  oirnin', 

An1  sold  out  the  shpare  milk  around, 
Oi'd  save  by  milk-shtarvin'  the  childer — 

But  now  the  cow's  gone  to  the  Pound ! 

They've  ordhered  her  sold  1     Is  this  justice  ? 

So  blind,  or  in  shpirit  so  dead, 
It  can' t  take  the  grog  from  a  dhrurikard, 

But  can  take  from  childer  their  bread  ! 

93 


Thank  God  !  there's  a  city  Up  Yonder — 
Where  law  fuhr  the  rich  an'  the  poor — 

Is  the  same: — an'  there's  bread  fuhr  the  orphans, 
An'  rhest  fuhr  me  there,  Oi  am  shure  ! 

You'll  pay  it? — Oi  shan't  lose  the  cow,  suhr? 

God  bless  ye  ! — fuhr  He  sint  ye  here  ! 
You'll  always  be  kept  in  my  pray'rs,  suhr — 

All  Oi  can  give  now  is  a  tear  ! 
The  law  iv  the  land  may  be  faulty, 

But  good  hearts  hev  the  same  law  iv  love 
Fuhr  the  poor,  an'  the  widow,  an'  orphan, 

The  same  here  below,  as  above ! 


JAKE'S  TANKSGIBBIN'  DREAM. 

Hush,  coon,  don't  fro  yo  dirt  onter  me  ! 
Ise  innersent  's  a  chile,  yes  I  be : 

Yo  bettah  heah  me  splain,  though, 

Befoh  yo  was'  a  rainbow 

A  paintin'  up  dat  story: 

I'll  brung  de  facs  befoh  yo, 
An'  dey  will  show  dat  de  truf  am  dis  : 
Ise  one  dese  heah  somnambulis. 

De  Pres'dent  make  dat  Proclermashun, 
Wot  tole  de  folks  ol  froo  de  nashun, 

Dat  Tursday  be  Tanksgibbin' ; 

Dis  yeah  dey  make  good  libbin', 

94 


Dat  day  ol  mus'  do  nuffin 
But  eat  ros'  turkey  'n  stuffin', 
An'  rang  de  bell  fob  people  t'  meet, 
An'  praise  de  Lawd  fob  turkey  t'  eat. 

De  night  befoh  come  Tanksgibbin'  Day, 
I  feel  F  d  like  ter  eat  an'  ter  pray, 

In  good  ole  Mefdis  fashion  ; 

An'  den  de  tot  come  flashin' 

Dat  I'd  no  turkey  'n  roostah  ; 

I  kno'd  dar  was  no  use,  sah, 
To  ax  f oh  trus' ;  so  crawled  inter  bed, 
Wid  turkey  floppin'  'round  in  my  head. 

I  lay  wake  bout  dat  proclermashun, 

My  poh  heaht  fight  de  strong  temptashun 

Ter  grumble  at  my  blessin', 

Life  wi  no  turkey  'n  dressin'  ; 

I  ax  f  oh  grace,  Lawd  heah  me, 

Den  all  de  crowin'  neah  me 
Not  make  me  murmah;  kase  'twant  no  use ! 
I  fall  sleep  tinkin'  ob  chicken  roos' . 

I  dream  ob  chickens,  an'  turkey,  'n  geese, 
01  baked  wid  stuffin' ,  f  ryin'  in  grease— 

Dis  niggah's  head  want  right,  sah; 

I  dream  way  long  in  de  night,  sah, 

My  henhouse  swarmed  wid  chickens  ; 

An'  den,  wot  beats  de  dickens, 
I  dream  I  go  dar,  shoh's  yo  libbin', 
An'  git  bof  han's  full  foh  Tanksgibbin' ! 

97 


An'  jes  's  I  reach  de  henhouse  doah, 
Wy,  sumpfin'  splode  wid  Hellgate  roah, 

Dat  scah  me  out  my  senses  ! 

I  tink  ob  doah  an'  fences, 

But  bein'  sudden  wokin', 

De  place  ol  dark  an'  smokin' , 
I  tot  Ise  dead,  an',  froo  some  mistake, 
De  Debil  come  an'  gobble  ole  Jake. 

An'  jes  's  I  pray  de  trone  ob  grace, 

A  blazin'  light  shined  right  in  my  face  ! 

I  look  ter  see  Ole  Demon — 

G-ood  Lawd,  dar  stood  Marse  Lehman, 

His  gun  on  me  a  gassin' 

Jes  like  de  eberlassin' ! 
My  han's  was  empty,  an'  onter  de  groun', 
Some  gol'  leg  pullets  squatted  aroun'. 

Bress  Gawd,  Marse  Lehman,  am  dat  yo  ? 
How'd  yo  come  heah  ?    How'd  I  come,  toh  ? 

Yo  spec  I  come  heah  stealin'? 

No,  sah?  Pray  hab  some  feelin'! 

Dis  whole  night,  shoh's  yo  libbin', 

I  dream  ob  dat  Tanksgibbin' ; 
An'  dese  heah  chickens — somehow  it  seems 
Ise  made  mistake,  some  way,  in  my  dreams. 

Marse  Lehman  seed  it  was  all  so  plain, 

He  say :  "Ise  glad,  Jake,  dat  yo  kin  splain  ; 

Under  de  sarcumstances, 

De  arg'ment  yo  advances, 


Perhaps  would  hang  a  jury  ; 

But,  Jake,  if  dis  don't  cure  yo, 
An'  yo  come  back  in  yo  dreams,  yo'll  take 
Sich  deep  sot  cold  dat  yo'll  nebber  wake." 


WHEN  MY  CHORES  ARE  DONE. 

If  there's  a  happy  time  upon  the  farm, 
And  if  there  is  n't,  then  this  world  has  none, 

'Tis  when  the  farmer  draws  up  to  the  fire 
To  rest  at  home,  and  all  his  chores  are  done. 

To  hear  the  wolfish  howls  of  wintry  winds, 
The  patter  of  their  footfalls  as  they  run, 

And  know  all  yours  are  sheltered  safe  and  warm, 
And  you're  at  home,  and  all  your  chores  are 
done. 

The  swine,  filled  with  hot  broth,  are  piled  for 

sleep, 

Fowls  fed  and  housed,  the  ev'nin'  meal  begun; 
The  cattle,  sheep  and  horses,  munchin'  hay, 
Cows  milked,  the  night-wood  in,  the  chores  all 
done. 

Before  the  fire  with  nose  between  his  paws, 
The  old  dog  holds  the  place  by  service  won  ; 

And  dudish  puss  is  strokin'  his  moustache, 
And  hums  a  tune,  for  all  the  chores  are  done. 
99 


The  supper  done,  the  dishes  washed  and  shelved, 
Then  nuts  and  pop-corn,  puzzle  and  the  pun  ; 

The  lessons  got,  the  lovin'  word  and  kiss  ; 
For  all  is  joy  when  all  the  chores  are  done. 

The  boys  and  girls  tell  all  the  neighbor  news, 
Or  read,  or  sing,  or  jine  in  games  of  fun  ; 

The  good  wife  smiles,  the  babe  crows  on  her  knee, 
Tot  rides  your  foot — for  all  the  chores  are  done. 

No  gamblin'  stocks  on  change  to  murder  sleep  ! 

No  warrin'  creeds  !  No  life  all  good  men  shun! 
No  vain  ambition,  crucif yin'  hope  ! 

But  home,  and  love,  and  rest, — and  chores  all 
done. 

When  death's  cold  night  of  cloud  and  gloom  shall 
come, 

May  I  be  ready,  with  the  settin'  sun, 
To  enter  in  where  all  my  loved  ones  are, 

As  in  the  old  farm  home  —  my  chores  all  done. 


100 


HOW  PATTI  SANG   "HOME,    SWEET 
HOME." 

Well,  I  set  and  listened  to  her, 

With  a  heav'n  in  my  heart, 
An'  my  eyes  a  moister  dimmin', 

Like  the  tears  was  gon'  to  start ; 
An'  my  soul  a-risin',  thrillin', 

As  my  spirit  soared  away, 
An'  the  coldest  feelin's  fillin', 

An'  a  chillin'  of  the  clay. 

'Twas  the  music  of  my  boyhood, 

Of  the  brooks,  an'  birds,  an'  bees, 
With  the  breath  of  spring,  an'  flowers, 

An'  the  blossoms  on  the  trees  ; 
An'  the  sheep  an'  lambs  a  blatin', 

An'  the  lowin'  cattle  come, — 
All  a  minglin'  with  the  voices 

Of  the  far  off,  dear  old  home. 

An'  it  sweeter  got,  an'  tender, 

An'  I  seemed  a  child  to  grow, 
With  my  mother's  arms  around  me, 

An'  her  voice  a  singin'  low  ; 
An'  the  years  of  toil  an'  temptin' 

Threw  no  shadder  on  my  bliss, 
As  I  laid  in  drowsy  dreamland, 

With  my  mother's  lovin'  kiss. 

101 


Then  the  music  swelled,  all  meltin', 

Like  the  wavin'  of  the  grain, 
An'  I  walked  with  her,  my  sweetheart, 

Down  the  thorn-hedged,  country  lane  ! 
Lovin'  voices  softly  minglin' 

In  a  secret  that  we  told  ; 
Ay,  the  secret  wand'rin'  with  us 

From  the  medder-lands  of  gold  ! 

Oh !  them  tones  was  caught  from  heaven, 

In  some  dream  the  singer  dreamed, 
When  her  voice  was  taught  the  music 

Of  the  harps  that  play  "  Redeemed ! " 
An'  they  linger  in  my  mem'ry, 

Weavin'  still  a  trancin'  spell, 
An'  afillin'  me  with  feelin's 

That  my  heart  can  never  tell. 


102 


HOW   I  PROPOSED  TO  MARY. 

I  was  bindin'  wheat  an'  findin' 
Thorns  an'  thistles  in  it,  still 

Thinkin'  on  it  when  a  bonnet 
Come  a  peepin'  o'er  the  hill. 

Deacon's  daughter  with  some  water, 
Though  'twas  early  in  the  day  ; 

When  she  got  it,  an'  she  brought  it, 
I  could  allus  drink,  some  way. 

I  was  eyein'  curls  a  flyin' 

Round  the  cheeks  so  pink  an'  white, 
With  a  notion  that  her  motion 

Beat  the  wavin'  wheat  a  mite. 

Over  shoetops  in  the  dewdrops ! 

An'  like  stars  with  clouds  aroun', 
Hid,  then  beamin',  so,  dew  gleamin', 

Little  feet  flashed  'neath  her  gown  ! 

I  was  bindin'  wheat  an'  findin' 
Thistles  in  the  bundle,  when 

Deacon's  daughter  brought  the  water 
To  me  last  of  all  the  men. 

Says  I :    "  Mary,  it  is  very 
Strange  that  I  should  allus  be 

Last  a  drinkin'  !  I've  been  thinkin' 
Why  you  choose  all  men  'fore  me  ? " 

103 


Quick  the  blushin'  come  a  rushin'  ; 

But  she  laughed  :  "Because  I  find 
Them  that's  leadin'  are  most  needin'  ; 

You  are  always  here  behind  ! " 

"  See  here,  Mary,  there  is  nary 

Flower  found  in  this  ere  sheaf  ; 
But  a  thistle  makes  me  whistle  ! 
Wonder,  now,  if  you'd  as  lief, 

'Fore  I  bind  it,  come  an'  find  it, 
An'  jest  take  the  trouble  out?" 

I  felt  colder  than  a  boulder  ; 
Yet  I  sweat  with  fear  an'  doubt. 

"Yes,  I'm  willin',  "  was  the  thrillin' 

Way  she  answered,  kneelin'  down. 
True  as  Moses,  like  crushed  roses 
Was  the  perfume  of  her  gown  ! 

My  heart  beatin'  an'  repeatin', 
What  I  didn'  t  dare  to  speak ! 
"In  the  band,  sir,  in  your  hand,  sir, 
Is  the  thistle  that  I  seek," 

Said  she,  graspin'  an'  unclaspin' 
My  clinched  fingers  from  the  wheat, 

With  a  nimble  touch  whose  tremble 
Shook  me  from  my  head  to  feet. 

Then  a  smilin'  so  beguilin', 
Rose  an'  said  :  "  I  have  it,  see  ? 

No  reminder  need  the  binder 
That  my  pay  most  dear  will  be." 

104 


Says  I :  "Mary,  life  is  very 
Like  this  bindin'  of  the  wheat ; 

Few  the  flowers  that  are  ours, 
Toiling  in  the  summer  heat ; 

' '  Thistle  trouble  more  than  double  ; 

But  I  love  ye  an'  I'll  be 
Foremost  binder,  truer,  kinder, 
If  you'll  pick  the  thorns  for  me?" 

On  the  band,  sir,  fell  her  hand,  sir, 
So' s  I  caught  her  finger  tips, 

Drawed  her  nearer,  so's  to  hear  her  ; 
But  I  somehow  stopped  her  lips. 

Deacon's  daughter  brings  the  water 
That  has  sweetened  all  my  life  ; 

An'  I  whistle  at  the  thistle 
Folks  call  Trouble  :  she's  my  Wife  ! 


105 


Somehow  yarns  around  the  groc'ry 

Ain't  so  funny  as  before, 
An'  I'm  all  the  time  forgettin' 

This,  or  that  'ere  leetle  chore  ; 
When  I  git  out  in  the  kitchen, 

Want  to  hang  around  an'  stay ; 
Guess  I'm  foolish  cause  this  ev'nin', 

Why — my  wife's  a  gon'  away. 

She's  a  fixin'  things  up  for  me 

With  a  thoughtful,  lovin'  care, 
Tellin'  me  that  somethin's  here, 

An'  somethin'  else  is  over  there  ; 
Lookin'  sober,  speakin'  low-voiced, 

Though  she  hasn't  much  to  say  ; 
Ketch  her  eyes  on  me  all  dim  like — 

Guess  she  hates  to  go  away. 

Wish  'twas  over — wish  'twas  way  off- 

Wish  we  didn't  have  to  part ; 
That's  jest  what  I  keep  a  thinkin' 

An*  a  feelin'  in  my  heart. 
P'raps  our  speerits  see  much  furder 

Than  the  partin'  of  today, 
An'  jest  hint  what  they  can't  tell  us, 

When  a  loved  one's  gon'  away. 

106 


Calls  to  mind  another  journey, 

By  an'  by  we  all  must  go; 
Wonder  who's  a  gettin'  ready 

For  the  train  that  moves  so  slow  ? 
Brings  the  tears  to  think  about  it, 

So  I  git  nigh  her  an'  pray, 
It  may  be  my  time  for  startin' , 

Jest  when  she's  a  gon'  away. 


IS  THERE  AN  HONEST  LAWYER? 

Is  thar  an  honest  lawyer  ? 

Of  course  !    They're  all  that  way  : 
But  now  an'  then  bad  clients 

Lead  some  of  'em  astray. 
A  genooine  good  lawyer 

Makes  clients'  cases  his : 
If  actin'  fer  ends  like  'em, 

He's  gone — you  bet  he  is ! 

Thar' s  Ap,  the  city  lawyer, 

Begun  hyar  in  our  sight ; 
The  son  of  that  brave  soldier 

Who  died  fer  us,  an'  Right. 
His  father  borned  Right  in  him, 

The  widow  trained  him  so  : 
An'  as  a  sprout  is  grafted, 

It 's  mighty  ap'  to  grow. 

107 


Why,  out  hyar  in  the  country, 

His  word  was  gospel  true  ; 
Enough  to  hang  a  jury, 

An'  hang  a  feller,  too. 
A  poor  man's  case,  he'd  take  it, 

An'  know  he'd  get  no  fee, 
An'  all  the  gold  in  Klondike 

Not  make  him  "Haw,"  er  "Gee." 

He  fought  the  Railroad  Comp'ny 

Fer  Lawson's  ole  home  place, 
When  all  the  other  lawyers 

Said  Lawson  had  no  case  : 
All  courts  below  agin  him  ; 

Supreme,  his  way  it  went ; 
He  saved  John  from  the  Poorhouse  ; 

His  fee  was — not  a  cent. 

He's  now  down  in  the  city, 

His  clients  millionaires ; 
None  's  tempted  so  to  sell  out,N 

No  priest  sich  secrets  bears. 
A  slip  of  pen,  a  "  Give  'way  " 

A  client  couldn't  know, 
Makes  Ap  a  millionaire,  sir  ; 

It  never  happens  so. 

Estates  of  widders,  orphans, 

He  has  'em  money  fat. 
I've  heard  of  folks  not  lawyers, 

A  stealin'  things  like  that. 

108 


He'd  often  make  a  fortune 
By  milkin'  down  a  share  ; 

An'  so  he  must  be  honest- 
He  ain't  a  millionaire ! 

More  trusted  an'  more  tempted, 

More  blamed  than  other  folks  ; 
Yit  they  're  as  true  an'  honest, 

Who  says  else,  lies,  er  jokes. 
We  tell  our  troubles  to  'em,  . 

An'  stretch  what  we  will  swear ; 
In  Court  we  shrink  it,  git  beat ; 

They  have  the  blame  to  bear. 

Waal,  Moses  was  a  lawyer, 

An'  Jefferson  that  drew 
Our  holy  Declaration ; 

An'  "Honest  Abe"  was,  too. 
An'  I  kin  name  ye  many 

An  honest  lawyer,  Cap  ; 
But  if  ye  want  to  see  one — 

Jes'  take  a  look  at  Ap  ! 


109 


GOIN'  TO  LAW. 

Wall,  it  happened  this  way:  About  July  the  third, 

We  got  up  purty  early,  my  hired  hand  an'  me, 

An'  right  out  in  the  road,  nigh  the  cornfield,  we 

heard 
Some  loose  kind  o'  stray  critters ;  my  hand 

went  to  see. 
Soon  he  brought  back  two  bosses,  abandoned,  he 

said, 
Fer  they  both  was  all  mud,  an'  run  down  like 

a  clock ; 
He  declared  he  would  "post  'em,"  an'  see  they 

was  fed, 

If  they  never  was  claimed,  why,  he'd  jest  own 
the  stock. 

So  I  rented  him  paster,  an'  we  turned  'em  in. 

Then  I  thought  what  a  pity  I  had  n't  been  fust 
To  diskiver  the  team  ;  what  good  luck  'twould  a 

been ; 

Fer  I  needed  one  team  more,  an'  hev  one  I  must. 

An'  the  more  that  I  studied,  the  more  I'd  incline 

To  believe  that  my  hand  had  no  right  to  the 

team, 

An'  the  surer  I  felt  that  it  ought  to  be  mine  ; 
An'  I  thought  I'd  just  take  it,  so  plain  did  it 
seem. 

no 


Sure  the  time  of  the  man  that  I  hired  was  all 

mine'! 
What  he  done  was  fer  me,  made  no  odds  what 

it  was ! 

When  he  took  up  the  hosses,  'tis  plain  as  a  line 
'Twas  me  takin'  'em  up  !  So  I  pleaded  my  cause. 
Then  I  went  up  to  town,  an'  I  posted  as  strays 

Them  two  hosses,  an'  stuck  the  notices  round  ; 
Then  I  got  two  ole  neighbors  to  come  an'  appraise; 
Then  I  called  that  team  mine,  jest  to  feel  how 
'twould  sound. 

When  my  hand  found  it  out,  he  jest  got  on  his  ear, 

An'  we  had  a,  discussion,  rale  lively,  you  bet. 
Waal,  he  would  n' t  surrender,  an'  I  did  n't  skeer, 

So  we  got  the  hull  neighborhood  into  a  sweat. 
An'  some  took  sides  with  me,  others  took  sides 

with  him, 

All  a  eggin'  us  on  with  their  cheap,  fool  advice ; 
But  the  hosses  filled  up,  an'  they  looked  kind  o' 

trim, 

An'  I  thought  if  I  won,  'twas  a  team  at  half 
price. 

So  I  turned  off  my  hand,  an'  he  went  up  to  town 
An'  replevined  the  team  ;  took  'em  right  'fore 

my  eyes  ! 
Wall,  in  less  than  two  hours  all  the  neighbors 

was  down, 

An'  they  frothed  at  the  outrage,  an'  eat  my 
wife's  pies. 

113 


My  hull  fam'ly  jined  with  'em.     I  saddled  a  jade 
An'  I  loped  into  town,  all  red-hot  at  the  maw  ; 

Found  my  hired  hand's  lawyer  out  on  a  parade 
With  that  team  !     Whew  !  that  fixed  it,  an'  I 
went  to  law ! 

Kushin'  up  to  a  lawyer,  I  told  him  my  case, 
That  my  neighbors  was  stormin'  because  I  was 

beat; 

That  I  wanted  that  team  'fore  they  saw  the  dis 
grace 
Of  my  hand' s  lawyer  drivin'  my  team  on  the 

street. 
So  he  scratched  off  some  papers,  an'   I  give  a 

bond, 

A  "  deliv'ry  "  he  called  it,  to  take  'em  agin. 
An'  he  then  scratched  his  head,  an'  thus  wisely 

he  yawned : 
"  I  am  ready  to  act  when  my  fee  is  paid  in." 

Waal,  he  took  all  my  cash,  an'  a  note  f  er  the  rest, 
Then  we  plowed  up  a  sheriff  an'  looked  fer  the 

team. 

As  we  went  round  the  city  I  met  ev'ry  pest 
From  about  my  hull    neighborhood,   an'   he 

would  scream : 

"  Hello,  say !  is  it  fact  that  clod-thumper 's  ahead  ? 
They  all  say  that  his  lawyer  's  now  able  to 

drive!  " 

Then  I' d  feel  kinder  mean  an'  I'd  look  kinder  red, 
Till  I  got  all  stirred  up,  like  mad  bees  in  a  hive. 

114 


Soon  we  met  my  hired  hand,  an'  he  spoke  so 

perlite  ; 
Then  he  smole  a  smile  big  as  a  crack  in  a 

fence. 
Wa'ntl  mad?    Why,  I  swelled  till  my  clothes 

was  skin-tight, 

An'  I  thought  I  should  bust  in  my  own  self- 
defence  ! 
But  the  sheriff  yelled,  "Halt !  "  grabbed  a  team 

goin'  by, 
Read  a  paper,   an'   then  a  plug  hat    bowed 

assent ; 
My  hand's  lawyer  got  out  an'  mine  went  on 

a  fly, 
An'  I  felt  jest  as  big  as  a  hull  circus  tent ! 

Waal,  I  strutted  around,  shakin'  hands  ev'ry- 

where, 
An'  a  praisin'  the  team  when  my  lawyer  druv 

past ; 
Then  I  proudly  rid  home'ard,  an',  when  I  got 

there, 
My  best  hoss,  halter-hung,  was  jest  kickin'  his 

last ! 

Then  I  lost  ten  days  time  gittin'  ready  fer  trile, 
An'  ten  acres  of  wheat  that  got  spiled  in  the 

nel'; 
Then  got  beat  the  fust  hitch,  had  to  go  fer  my 

pile, 
Fer  to  fee  my  licked  lawyer  to  take  an  appeal. 

115 


Waal,  the  next  time  his  lawyer  let  mine  git  on 

top; 
Then  my  hired  man  he  took  it  up  to  Supreme 

Court. 
Fer  two  years  they  sot  on  it,  then  give  it  a  flop, 

An'  it  lit  with  my  hired  man  a  holdin'  the  fort. 
So  we  got  a  new  trile,  an'  we  locked  horns  once 

more, 
An'  we  bellered,  an'  hooked,  an'  we  barked  all 

the  trees  ; 
An'  the  neighbors  all  watchin',  an'  thirstin'  fer 

gore; 
An'  the  lawyers  both  loafin',  an'  pocketin'  fees. 

Yaas,  it  ended.     Eh ?— how \— Why,  I  don't  like 

to  tell. 
'Twas  a  mighty  big  suit !  biggest  ever  'round 

here ! 
I  was  pluck  to  the  last :  That  is  pluck  fer  my— 

well, 

Fer  my  lawyer  ;  I'  m  rentin'  a  farm  by  the  year. 
My  attorney  owns  mine ;  earned  it,  sir,  gittin' 

beat ! 

Oh  !  my  hired  man  he's  workin'  fer  his'n,  some 
how! 

We  got  all  the  bitter,  them  law  chaps  the  sweet. 
Whar's  the  team  ?    Thar  's  his  lawyer  a  drivin' 
it  now ! 


116 


LEAVING  THE  FARM. 

Come,  wife,  let  us  take  a  last  look  around, 

We  leave  the  old  farm,  to-day. 
We'll  walk  in  the  paths  that  our  feet  hev  made 

In  years  that  hev  passed  away. 
We'll  go  by  the  fields,  and  the  homestead  house, 

We  built  when  we  fust  begun  ; 
Then  back  through  the  paster  among  the  stock, 

With  good-bye  fer  ev'ry  one. 

It's  hard,  but  the  children  will  hev  it  so  ; 

The  city  has  got  them  all. 
An'  we  must  live  near  to  'em  now  each  day, 

While  waitin'  the  Master's  call. 
God  bless  'em  fer  love  !   They  are  good  an'  kind  ; 

They  take  arter  you,  dear  wife ; 
As  tender  an'  true  to  worn,  withered  age, 

As  unto  the  bloom  of  life. 

I'll  carry  your  shawl !  ye  don't  need  it  now, 

But  will  when  we're  comin'  back. 
Look,  yonder' s  the  dogs  both  a  follern  us  ! 

Hello  there,  ole  Filo  'n  Jack  ! 
You've  saved  us  both  many  a  weary  step  ; 

An'  once  saved  our  drownin'  boy  ! 
Come,  bark  an'  frisk  round  !     Let  our  last  tramp 
ring 

With  some  of  the  old  time  joy. 

117 


Well,  now,  there's  the  pigeons  flyin'  'long! 

Coo,  coo  !  an'  ye  know  us  too — 
Yes,  yes  ;  but  don't  know  as  ye  cling  to  us, 

That  we  are  desertin'  you  ! 
Look,  wife,  how  your  posies  are  bloomin'  out ! 

But  somehow  the  wind  's  a  sigh  : 
The  flowers  drop  dew  like  the  silent  tears 

That  fall  with  the  last  good-bye. 

Don't,  wife,  fer  my  heart  is  too  full  fer  tears  ! — 

That  wheat,  ain't  it  lookin'  fine? 
Be  twenty-live  bushels  an  acre,  sure  ! 

I'll — no,  this  crop  won't  be  mine. 
I  know  them  clean  fields  like  dear  faces  loved, 

Their  bosoms  are  warm  an'  true  ; 
They  never  miss  crops  !  They  are  silver  mines 

More  safe  than  them  in  Peru. 

An'  here's  the  old  lane ! — how  my  thoughts  run 
back 

To  ev'nin's  of  long  ago ! 
You  trippin'  down  here  with  your  milkin'  pail 

A  singin'  so  sweet  an'  low, 
It  thrilled  me  all  through  as  I  left  the  field, 

An'  cheered  up  my  heart  so  well, 
My  sweat-stained  an'  tired  limbs  was  filled 

With  rest  that  my  tongue  can' t  tell. 

Look,  there  is  the  tree  where  our  Bennie  fell ! 

I  see  it  all  jest  as  plain  ! 
The  blood-matted  curls,  the  face  white  an'  still — 

Death's  fust  blow  is  felt  again  ! 

118 


His  name  is  still  seen  that  he  climbed  to  cut ; 

Time's  fingers  hev  rubbed  it  o'er, 
The  letters  are  gone  ;  but  the  wound  is  there, 

As  here  in  our  hearts,  still  sore. 

Come,  wife,  let' s  not  wait  to  be  close  him  here  ; 

He's  Yonder — a  little  way  ! 
We're  nearer  him  now  wherever  we  be, 

Then  when  he  lay  here  that  day. 
It's  strange  that  the  limb  that  he  fell  from  died  ! 

I  still  in  the  bark  can  trace 
The  lines  that  the  neighbors  all  'round  declare 

Jest  picture  his  curls  an'  face. 

How  green  the  old  medder  appears  to-day  ! 

It  looks  like  the  lap  of  spring, 
The  flowers  like  children  a  smilin'  sweet, 

An'  happy  the  waters  sing  ! 
Reminds  me  of  you  in  our  life's  spring  time, 

A  lookin'  so  fresh  an'  fair, 
The  children  a  laffin'  upon  your  knees, 

As  bright  as  them  posies  there. 

We  leave  them — Good-bye,  dear  old  fields,  good 
bye  ! 

You'  ve  paid  me  f er  toil  an'  pains, 
The  cleanin'  of  stumps  an'  the  stones  away, 

The  seedin'  an'  makin'  drains. 
The  sun  never  warmed  any  better  ones  ; 

I  never  shall  find  as  good, 
Until  I  shall  see  the  green  fields  that  wait 

Afar  beyond  Jordan's  flood. 

119 


So  here's  the  old  house  where  we  fust  begun  ! 

Time-racked,  like  we  are,  good  wife  ; 
It  leans  with  its  years,  an'  it  shows  all  'round, 

Th£  storm  an'  the  tempest  strife. 
But  there  is  the  winder  where  beamed  your  face, 

When  waitin'  fer  me  to  come  ; 
An'  there  is  the  doorway  in  which  you  stood 

To  hug  me  a  welcome  home  ! 

Come  in !    Here's  the  hearth  where  the  oven 
glowed, 

An'  where  the  tea-kittle  swung ; 
Right  there's  where  the  little  pine  table  stood 

You  flitted  around,  an'  sung, 
As  on  it  you  spread  the  white  linen  cloth, 

An1  set  the  blue  dishes  down, 
An'  took  from  the  hearth  the  most  fragrant  tea, 

An'  bread  jest  a  temptin'  brown. 

An'  you  reigned  the  queen  of  the  banquet,  too, 

An'  I  was  the  king  until 
My  throne  was  o'ertopped  by  a  high-chair  prince, 

Who  ruled  at  his  own  sweet  will. 
An'  here's  where  the  little  red  stockin's  hung, 

We  filled  ev'ry  Christmas  Eve  ; 
The  hearthstone  is  cold,  an'  the  children  gone — 

An'  now,  wife,  we,  too,  must  leave ! 

Good-bye,  dear  old  hearth  with  the  cricket  song ! 

Old  rain-music  roof — good-bye  ! 
Your  melodies  live  in  the  mem'ries  loved, 

An'  shall  live,  until  we  die  ! 
120 


Oil !  wife,  if  the  house  never  made  with  hands, 
Which  stands  on  the  Other  Shore, 

Will  give  us  such  joys  as  we  fust  knew  here, 
My  heart  will  not  ask  fer  more ! 

See  !  yonder' s  the  stock  all  about  the  creek  ! 

Come  on.     Look,  they  see  us  now ! 
Jest  notice  that  colt,  hair  as  fine  as  silk  ! 

An'  there  is  your  Jersey  cow  ! 
Them  fillies  show  blood.     See  that  yearlin'  go  ! 

A  two-twenty  boss  I'll  bound. 
Ha,  ha !  the  old  team  has  f ergot  their  years, 

They're  tryin'  to  caper  'round  ! 

A  better  team  never  stretched  out  a  trace  ! 

No  load  that  they  couldn't  draw ; 
An'  I  could  jest  tie  the  lines  'round  the  brake, 

An'  drive  'em  by  "  Gee  "  an'  "  Haw  !  " 
Good-bye,  good  old  Gyp,  an'  good-bye  old  Jim  ! 

We've  worked  till  we're  all  worked  down. 
I  know  if  a  hoss  heaven's  ever  made, 

You'll  both  wear  a  starry  crown. 

They're  ev'ry  one  foll'rin'  us  yit,  dear  wife  ; 

'Tis  so  that  they  cling  to  friends  : 
I'd  rather  be  with  'em  than  go  to  town — 

Their  love  is  more  true  than  men's. 
I'm  glad  they  don't  know  what  that  good-bye 
meant ; 

Well,  well — my  own  heart  don't  know  ! 
It's  only  a  pain,  an'  a  hopin'  to  meet 

Above,  if  not  here  below. 

121 


Humph  !  here's  the  old  water-gap,  pesky  thing  ! 

Goes  off  down  the  creek  each  rise. 
Like  folks  that  I  know,  give  'em  half  a  chance, 

They'll  break  from  the  strongest  ties. 
The  foot-log  is  there  that  you  used  to  cross, 

A  blackberry' n'  on  the  hill. 
The  sun's  goin'  down,  an'  the  waterfall's  dirge, 

Is  piped  by  the  whippoorwill ! 

The  creek  looks  so  cunnin'  a  playin'  'round 

In  kind  o'  coquettish  ways. 
How  good  them  old  elms,  stretchin'  out  their  arms 

Did  seem  on  hot  summer  days  ! 
An'  yonder 's  the  sheep  windin'  'round  the  knoll, 

The  lambs  all  a  playin',  see  ! 
The  innersent  things  !     Makes  me  think  of  Him, 

The  Lamb  that  was  slain  fer  me  ! 

Hyar,  hyar !  — now  them  dogs  scart  a  rabbit  up  ! 

They  want  to  show  off  to-day ! 
Come  back  !  Well,  go  on,  your  old  legs  so  stiff 

You'll  not  ketch  it  anyway. 
Ha,    ha! — they've  both  stopped — look,  they're 
turnin'  'round, 

Their  heads  hangin'  down  with  shame  ! 
Don't  mind  it,  old  dogs,  in  the  race  of  life 

We're  all  left  behind  the  same  ! 

Go,  Filo,  an'  take  them  sheep  'cross  the  creek ! 

How  big  he  feels  now,  see  his  tail ! 
We're  proud  of  the  little  old  age  can  do 

As  children  ;  as  shamed  to  fail. 
122 


My,  how  that  woods  paster  is  comin'  out ! 

Them  hogs,  ain'  t  they  lookin'  fine  ? 
7Twas  money,  the  root  of  all  evil,  went 

As  devils  in  Scripture  swine. 

The  bees  are  out  huntin'  the  buds  an'  bloom, 

The  birds  singin'  blithe  an'  gay, 
The  squirrels  a  chatterin'  an'  jumpin'  trees, 

All  happy — but  us,  to-day ! 
Good-bye,  cheery  friends,  when  you  come  again, 

You'll  miss  this  old  snowy  head  ! 
But  never  your  music  will  be  fergot, 

Till  mem'ry  an'  me  are  dead. 

How  sweet  the  old  orchard  does  smell  to-day  ! 

I  planted  an'  nursed  each  tree. 
They  seem  like  dear  children  my  care  has  raised 

Now  payin'  it  back  to  me. 
Good-bye  !  0  I  pray  that  when  Over  There, 

The  all  of  my  life  He  sees, 
'Twill  only  be  fragrant,  as  fruitful,  fair, 

As  that  of  these  good  old  trees. 

How  cool  your  spring-milkhouse  keeps  ev'ry thing! 

Oh,  yes,  dear,  I  know  you  do, 
As  clean  as  your  cupboard  ;  them  pans  as  bright 

As  Bissell's  wife's  diamonds,  too. 
The  spring  runs  as  clear  as  in  early  days  ; 

Let's  take  one  more  drink,  good  wife  ; 
We'll  find  none  that's  purer  till  we  drink  from 

The  fount  of  eternal  life. 

123 


Your  chickens  an'  turkeys  all  swarm  the  yard  ! 

No  more  you  will  feed  them  there- 
Jest  see  them  spring  roosters  a  fightin'  now, 

Like  children  a  pullin'  hair ! 
Them  ducks  am' t  no  singers  !  as  fighters,  though, 

I  reckon  they're  rale  ring  doves  ; 
Called  Science,  not  Sin ;  fer,  like  other  quacks, 

They've  got  on  their  boxin'  gloves  ! 

That  peacock  struts  round  fer  to  show  his  tail ! 

Reminds  me  of  folks  I  know  ; 
So  proud  of  their  ancestors,  things  behind, 

Got  nuthin'  ahead  to  show. 
There's  nineteen  chickens  with  that  old  hen ; 

Look,  hov'  rin'  the  peepin'  things  !  — 
So  may  we  be  gathered  when  night  comes  on, 

All  under  His  shelf  rin'  wings  ! 

The  carriage  has  come  ;  we  must  leave  the  farm — 

Oh,  wife,  how  my  full  heart  swells  ! 
It  seems  like  I  stood  by  the  loved  an'  lost, 

A  hearin'  their  fun'ral  knells  ! 
How  mem'ry  flies — O  the  happy  days  ! 

O  joys  that  will  come  no  more  ! 
Next  goin'  to  Heaven  I  would  go  back 

To  live  our  old  farm  life  o'er ! 

Good-bye,  long-loved  home  of  my  heart — good 
bye ! 

There,  wife,  lean  upon  my  arm  : 
We're  breakin'  the  ties  that  the  years  hev  formed, 

We're  leavin'  the  dear  old  farm  !  — 

124 


Let's  look  up  to  Him  who  lias  given  us 
The  home  that  we  leave  to-day, 

An'  ask  Him  to  give  us  a  mansion  where 
They  live,  an'  they  love,  alway. 


AS  TOLD  BY  A  GHOST  FROM  THE  MAINE. 

With  the  faith  of  brave  men  in  the  honor  of  men, 
So  we  gave  our  good  ship  to  the  pilot  of  Spain; 

On  our  helm  was  the  hand  of  the  nation  that  then 
Gave  the  guide  and  the  order  and  anchored  the 
Maine. 

As  a  host  leads  a  guest  to  a  place  in  the  home, 
We  were  led  to  the  buoy  on  Havana's  dark 

wave. 
Yea,  were  lured  to  the  death  trap  hid  under  the 

foam, 

Till  the  couch  of  the  guest  was  the  mouth  of  a 
grave. 

There  we  lay  with  the  watch  of  the  true  Man-of- 

War, 

And  the  sentinel  Nation  patrolling  the  sea  ; 
For  the  Spaniards  who  anchored  us  held    the 

night  tor, 

And  the  hand  Spain  commanded  now  held  the 
mine  key. 

125 


With  the  trust  of  brave  men  in  the  honor  of  men, 

So  in  dreams,  or  on  duty,  were  orders  obeyed ; 

With  our  flag  for  our  shield,  we  were  ambushed 

again 

In  the  gloom  that  the  night  and  the  dark  waters 
made. 

Our  ship  swung  'gainst  the  mine,  signal  warning 

the  shore, 
Then  a  key  that  Spain  held  turned  the  lock 

under  guard ; 

And  a  key  held  by  Spain  oped  the  battery  door, 
And  the  Ken  of  a  Spaniard  her  secret  unbarred. 

Then  a  touch  and  a  spark  and  our  ship  rose  in 

air ! 
Bursting  fire,  thunder  roar,  and  the  groans  of 

the  slain, 

And  two  hundred  and  three  score  and  six  mur 
dered  there — 

'Twas  the  crime  of  the  age — Spaniards  wrecking 
the  Maine  ! 


126 


THE  WIND  GHOULS. 

Hear  them  now  rioting  out  in  the  street ! 
Over  the  snow  with  no  prints  of  their  feet ! 
Up  in  the  trees  on  invisible  wings, 
Breaking  the  branches  in  wild  revelings  ! 
Riding  them  madly  like  imps  of  the  air  : 
Howling  it,  moaning  it  everywhere — 

"Blow,  blow  !  woe,  woe  ! 
Bacchanal  breath  of  the  ice  and  the  snow  ! 
Revel  and  riot  wherever  we  go  !  " 

Up  on  the  roof  hear  the  reveling  ghouls, 
Dancing  the  measures  a  lunatic  drools 
Out  of  the  chimney  with  orchestral  shrieks : 
Down  they  all  rush  and  the  old  roof  creaks  ! 
Raving  they  run  'round  the  house  with  a  roar, 
Whisper  through  crevice,  or  keyhole  of  door — 

"Blow,  blow  !  woe,  woe  ! 
Bacchanal  breath  of  the  ice  and  the  snow  ! 
Revel  and  riot  wherever  we  go  !  " 

Rattling  the  windows  in  maniac  glee, 
Slamming  the  doors  and  the  blinds  in  their  spree, 
Marching  the  balcony  moaning  a  dirge, 
House  and  hearts  shiver  !  Away  they  all  surge! 
Over  the  city,  by  hut  and  by  hall, 
Shaking  and  waking  the  sleepers  to  call — 

"Blow,  blow!  woe,  woe! 
Bacchanal  breath  of  the  ice  and  the  snow, 
Revel  and  riot  wherever  we  go  !  " 

127 


THE  NAME  THAT  HEADS  THE  TICKET. 

Christ's  name  is  the  head  of  the  ticket, 

A  cross  is  already  there  ; 
If  you  are  a  genuine  Christian 

Your  conscience  will  mark  with  care 
The  names  with  the  cross  and  with  His  name  ; 

For  no  one  the  Lord  deceives, 
Who  crucifies  Him,  as  on  Calv'ry, 

Along  with  defaming  thieves. 

Christ's  name  is  the  head  of  the  ticket, 

A  cross  is  already  there  ; 
And  Christian,  or  never  a  Christian, 

Defy  the  Lord  if  you  dare  ! 
His  fcross  is  for  truth,  and  not  error  ; 

Your  crosses  with  His  belong ; 
Each  vote  is  recorded  where  never 

The  Judge  of  Election  's  wrong. 

Christ' s  name  is  the  head  of  the  ticket, 

A  cross  is  already  there  ; 
Not  party,  position,  nor  friendship, 

Fear,  gain,  nor  the  loss  we  bear, 
Shall  fill  out  the  freeman's  ballot. 

Let  Conscience,  with  Manhood's  might, 
Yote  ever  for  home,  and  for  country, 

For  God,  and  for  Truth,  and  Right. 

128 


Christ's  name  is  the  head  of  the  ticket, 

Let  him  who  does  aught  beware ! 
Cross,  Ballot  and  Country  are  holy, 

All  we  have,  all  we  hope  for,  there. 
Who  buys,  or  who  sells  a  man's  ballot, 

Should  be  of  all  men  abhorred, 
Like  Arnold,  the  traitor  to  country, 

And  Judas,  who  sold  his  Lord. 


UNCLE  SAM. 

[Written  April  19, 1898.  Congress  debating  War  Resolutions  while  peo 
ple  declared  war,  as  shown  when  this  was  read  in  Metropolitan  Temple, 
New  York  City,  night  of  April  19th.] 

Have  you  heard  the  good  news  'bout  our  Uncle  ? 

The  whole  fam'ly  is  feeling  so  proud  ! 
When  you  hear  what  he's  done,  as  you  love  him, 

From  your  hearts  you  will  cheer  long  and  loud. 
HE  stood  up  like  a  Herald  of  Heaven, 

And  he  faced  the  whole  world  land  and  sea, 
Sword  aloft,  waving  Star  Spangled  Banner, 

Uncle  Sam  declared,  "Cuba  is  Free  ! " 
Are  you  proud  of  him  ? 
Hurrah  !  I  am  ! 
For  the  Right,  against  Wrong  he  has  risen — 

So  God  bless  him,  good  old  Uncle  Sam  ! 

When  he  heard  how  they  starved  in  Armenia, 
Uncle  Sam  sent  his  money  and  grain  ; 

When  he  heard  of  the  famine  in  Cuba, 
Uncle  helped — till  they  blew  up  the  Maine! 

Then  old  Uncle's  blood  boiled,  but  he  waited  ; 
Calm,  yet  awful  in  anger  is  he ; 

129 


Uncle  charged  Spain  with  murder  and  proved  it, 
Then  told  Spain,  "  Now  go  !  Cuba  is  FREE!'T 
Aren't  you  proud  of  him  ? 
God  knows  I  am  ! 

Against  Slavery,  for  Freedom  he's  standing — 
Earth  and  Heaven  honor  Old  Uncle  Sam  ! 

"  By  the  Wrongs  that  await  to  be  righted, 

And  the  Rights  that  are  strangled  by  Wrong ; 
By  the  slaughter  of  women  and  children, 

Nameless  horrors  committed  so  long  ; 
By  the  heroic  struggle  of  Cuba, 

And  the  tyranny,  murders  of  Spain, 
Cuba's  free!  I'll  fight  for  it !"  said  Uncle, 

"And  the  war-cry — 'REMEMBER  THE  MAINE  !'  " 
Oh  you're  proud  of  him  !  — 
Glory  !  I  am  ! 
We  will  stand  by  him,  light  for  him,  die  for  him! 

Hurrah  for  our  brave  Uncle  Sam  ! 

So  we  fling  out  our  flag,  our  Old  Glory, 

One  that  never  has  known  a  defeat, 
From  the  East  and  the  West,  North  and  Southland 

Come  the  armies  that  never  retreat ; 
Yankee  Seamen  tug  now  at  their  anchors, 

Their  prayer  is  avenging  the  Maine. 
The  whole  fam'ly  is  with  our  Old  Uncle — 

Hail !  Free  Cuba  !  and  Good-bye  to  Spain ! 
Lips  of  steel  end 
Diplomacy's  sham. 
Words  are  shot  and  shell  now  !  Rally  'round  himr 

Our  glorious  Old  Uncle  Sam  ! 

130 


THE  BATTLE  OF   MANILA   BAY. 

[Written   May  3d,  and  read  at  the  celebration  of  Dewey's  victory. 
Metropolitan  Temple,  New  York  City,  May  7th.] 

Our  Eagles  swoop,  on  wings  of  war, 

Caballo  and  Corregidor, 
By  guns,  o'er  hell  trap  mines,  and  wait 

A  day  of  Trafalgar. 
Then,  with  the  primal  dawn  of  May, 

Aligned  in  battle's  full  array, 
They  fill  the  hearts  oppressed  with  hope, 

The  Spaniards  with  dismay  : 
The  God-sent  ironclads  advance 

To  sweep  Manila  bay. 

The  Yankee  meets  the  Spanish  Don, 
The  battle  of  the  age  is  on, 
And  all  the  spirit  universe 

Is  to  the  hour  drawn. 
This  day  decides  the  ships  of  steel, 
This  day  a  blow  the  world  will  feel, 
Here  man  and  mind  are  masterful 

For  future  woe  or  weal : 
The  Angel  of  the  Prophecy 
Now  breaks  a  mystic  seal ! 

Knight  erraiits  of  a  new  crusade, 
Our  armored  battle-ships  are  made  ; 
To  carve  the  sepulcher  of  wrong, 

Crusaders  now  invade  ; 
They're  saviors  of  the  world's  oppressed. 

For  whom  the  world  has  pray'd. 

131 


And  pagan  error  is  the  foe  ; 
Spain's  fleet,  the  Spain  of  blood  and  woe ; 
Manila's  batt'ry,  Cavite's  - 
How  will  the  battle  go  ? 

Spain  with  her  ships  in  line, 
Spain  with  her  fort  and  mine, 

Walling  the  way ; 
Yankee  fleet,  Stripes  and  Stars, 
Dewey,  and  Yankee  tars, 

Braving  the  bay  ! 

Spaniards  with  bloody  boast, 
Navy,  and  army  host, 

Guard  sea  and  shore ; 
Yankees  with  hearts  and  thews, 
Only  their  ships  and  crews, 

Asking  no  more. 

Death  on  the  cannoned  waves, 
Death  in  the  batt'ry  graves, 

Death  in  the  air  ; 
Ambushing  Europan, 
Charging  American, 

So  they  meet  there. 

Armor-clad  battle-ships 
Thunder  from  metal  lips, 

Challenge  of  Spain  ; 
Bearing  along  the  sky, 
Iron  throats  make  reply — 
"  Remember  the  Maine  ! ' ' 

132 


Broadside,  and  turret  ball, 
Shrieking  bombs  bursting  fall, 

Heavens  hail  lead ; 
Wrecks  of  the  rending  shell, 
Dying  groans,  flames  of  hell ; 

Wounded,  and  dead. 

Raked  by  Manila's  fire, 
Cavite's  cannon  gyre, 

Shot,  shore  and  sea  ; 
On  through  the  blood  and  smoke, 
Yankees  with  hearts  of  oak, 
Liberty's  conq'ring  stroke, 
Breaking  the  tyrant's  yoke, 

Making  men  free ! 

Lo  !  a  shell  bursting  now 
Fires  the  Christina?  s  bow  ! 

Flag-ship  aflame  ! 
What  does  her  fate  portend  ? 
Monarchy  soon  to  end  ? 

'Tis  the  Queen's  name  ! 

Cuba  is  signaled  to, 

Saves  the  Christina?  s  crew, 

And  Montejo  ; 
Ha  !  Cuba's  deck  ablaze  ! 
Forecast  of  coming  days — 

From  Cuba  go  ! 

Wrecked  their  ships  one  and  ten, 
Blown  up  their  fleet  and  men, 
Yankee  shot  and  shell ; 

133 


Retribution,  O  Spain, 
Your  fleet  for  our  Maine  ! 
We've  remembered  well. 

Blood  from  their  vessels  drips, 
Curses,  pray'rs  on  their  lips, 
They  with  their  burning  ships 

Sink  and  go  down  ! 
Sink  till  there  are  no  more, 
Silenced  their  guns  ashore, 
Stars  and  Stripes  waving  o'er, 

Victory's  crown  ! 
Not  a  ship  have  we  lost, 
Not  a  life  has  it  cost — 

This  day' s  renown  ! 

Loud  ring  the  Yankee  cheers, 

Hating  Manila  hears, 

Yea,  the  world's  hemispheres 
Thrill  and  rejoice ! 

High  in  the  tow'r  of  time, 

Freedom's  bells  grandly  chime- 
Liberty's  voice ! 

Thus  free  American, 
Met  the  king'd  Europan, 

Won  world  applause ! 
Oh,  it  was  glorious, 
Mankind  victorious, 

God  and  His  cause  ! 

134 


They  lost  all,  we  lost  none, 
Who  could  so  aim  each  gun  ? 
God,  our  God,  it  was  ! 

Lord,  bless  the  gallant  Yankee  tar  ; 
Lord,  bless  the  Hector  of  the  war, 
Who  ran  the  forts,  Caballo  proud, 

And  strong  Corregidor, 
And  gained  the  glory  of  the  day, 

The  greater  Trafalgar ! 
For  greater  ships,  and  guns,  and  cause, 

Make  greater  conqueror ! 

While  time  shall  honor  John  Paul  Jones, 
Decatur,  Perry,  and  re-crowns 

Brave  Farragut,  and  Nelson,  all 
The  world's  fame-haloed  sons  ; 

We'll  tell  the  battle  faraway, 

How  Dewey  stormed  Manila  bay  ! 
Tell  how  the  free  American 
There  fought  the  famed  Iberian, 

And  crushed  him — won  the  day. 

This  day  dates  birth  of  higher  laws, 
And  makes  oppression  Mankind's  cause  ! 

The  day  of  thunder  tones, 
For  Liberty,  Humanity, 

The  day  that  shook  all  thrones  ! 
The  day  of  Christianity 

The  Savior  taught,  and  owns. 


135 


HOBSON  AND   HEROES. 

Blockading  Santiago 

In  Eighteen  Ninety-Eight, 
Cervera  in  the  harbor, 

Schley — Sampson  at  the  gate  ; 
Entrapped  the  Spanish  Squadron, 

And  bottle-shape  the  bay  : 
We  corked  it,  blew  our  name  in, 

And  here's  the  Yankee  way. 

Death  braved  would  run  our  collier, 

The  steel-ribbed  Merrimac, 
Sink  her  athwart  the  channel — 

Spain's  fleet  would  "ne'er  get  back." 
Their  pass,  by  forts  and  batt'ries, 

Was  locked  in  cannon  grips  ; 
The  harbor  mined,  torpedoed, 

Held  Spain's  best  battleships. 

Our  Admiral  Sampson  signalled, 

Four  thousand  seamen  read  : 
"  Seven  volunteers.     Death  mission  ! 

Who'll  go?"  the  message  said. 
War's  prize,  sure  death,  or  glory  ! 

Who'd  die  that  time  might  tell 
The  seven  who  manned  the  collier, 

Sank  her  in  fires  of  hell ! 

136 


The  answer  crowned  our  Navy, 

From  ship  to  ship  was  cheered, 
Their  Country  called  for  seven, 

Four  thousand  volunteered ! 
Like  call  has  found  one  hero, 

To  hold  the  bridge,  Rome's  three  ; 
But  what  whole  host  Horatii  ? 

Americans !     The  Free  ! 

Our  Admiral  chose  seven, 

By  stealth  one  more  got  place  ; 
Night-masked  they  clove  the  billows, 

To  death, — save  by  God's  grace. 
Their  music  ocean  chanted, 

Their  flag,  the  starry  sky, 
High  heaven's  glorious  banner 

For  all  that  go  to  die. 

Mars  shielded  them  with  shadows, 

They  ran  in  through  the  mines, 
Plunged  on,  as  Morro  Castle 

Boomed  out  the  battle  signs. 
Forts,  batt'ries,  ships  in  harbor, 

All  thundered  the  attack  ! 
The  flying  spray  and  splinters 

Death-veiled  the  Merrimac ! 

On  drove  the  target  martyrs, 

Without  a  fear,  or  fidge, 
At  ev'ry  post  a  hero, 

Brave  Hobson  on  the  bridge. 

137 


Shell  fragment  felled  the  pilot, 
A  Jackie  grasped  the  wheel ! 

The  engineers  below  there 
Noise  deaf  with  crashing  steel ! 

As  calm  as  making  mess  call 

Came  Hobson's  signal  pull. 
The  pilot  swung  her  steady 

To  fill  the  channel  full. 
Fuse  set  to  blow  up,  sink  her, 

The  seven  swam  sea  and  shell ; 
The  wreck  went  roaring,  rushing, 

To  block  the  mouth  of  hell ! 

The  deed  struck  dumb  Spain's  cannon, 

In  honor,  not  in  fear  ! 
Moved  e'en  the  foe  to  rescue, 

Loud  rang  the  Spanish  cheer  ! 
With  flag  of  truce  Cervera 

Made  safe  report  each  man, 
For  doing  deed  as  brave  as  done 

Since  world  and  war  began. 


138 


SAMPSON  AND  SCHLEY. 

"  Ho,  warden  !     Ho  there,  Spirit  Warden  ! 

Throw  open  the  Temple  of  Fame  ! 
Now  summon  the  heroes  of  ages  ! 

Two  worthies  admission  here  claim. 
I  bear  you  the  blood-writ  credentials, 

En  sealed  by  the  land  whence  they  came. 

A  herald  assembled  the  crowned  ones, 

Of  all  of  the  heroes  of  time  ; 
Proclaimed  to  the  Temple  Immortals, 

This  message  of  action  sublime  ! 

"  0  hallowed  and  fame-haloed  heroes, 

The  Land  of  the  Brave  and  the  Free, 
Waged  war  for  the  Weak,  'gainst  Oppression ; 
The  foe  was  king'd  Spain,  o'er  the  sea. 

"  Enslaving  the  queen  of  the  Antilles, 

With  battleships,  batt'ries  and  mines, 
Spain  locked  all  the  doors  of  the  harbors, 
Defiant  in  hellish  designs. 

"  Cervera  in  strong  Santiago, 

Cervera,  the  Fox  of  the  main, 
Defended  by  forts  walled  with  cannon, 
And  pride  of  the  Navy  of  Spain. 

"  But  Freemen  rode  down  on  the  billows, 
Their  battleships  armored  with  Right, 
Blockaded  the  fox  in  his  burrow, 
Awaited  surrender,  or  fight. 

139 


"  Spain  came,  masked  with  mist  of  the  morning, 

Torpedo  boats,  warships  afoam  ; 
A  prophet  was  there  who  had  promised  : 
4  I've  got  them  ;  they'll  never  get  home  ! ' 

"  Then  cyclone  of  fire  and  destruction, 
The  roar  of  the  demons  of  death  ; 
The  vengeance  of  long-outraged  heaven 
Swept  Spaniards  away  with  its  breath  ! 

"  Down,  down  went  the  Red  and  the  Yellow  ! 

Up,  up  rose  the  Stripes  and  the  Stars  ! 
Columbia  triumphant,  Spain  conquered 
By    Schley,    Sampson,   our    brave    Yankee 

Tars! 

The  heroes  that  captured  Cervera, 
Send  greetings,  O  ye  Sons  of  Mars  !" 

Then  rose  up  fame-laureled  Lord  Nelson  : — 
u  My  compeers  in  glory,"  quoth  he, 
"  These  brave  ones,  by  blood  my  own  cousins, 
Full  brothers  in  honor  must  be." 

The  starry  crown  Farragut  thundered  : — 
"  My  brothers  are  glory's  great  twins  ! 
We  welcome,  we  give  double  honor, 
Where  two  share  the  vie' try  each  wins  ! " 

Our  Washington,  Jackson  and  Lincoln, 
Grant,  Perry,  Decatur,  Paul  Jones, 

Up  high  in  Fame's  Temple  by  Dewey, 
Crowned  Sampson  and  Schley  on  twin  thrones. 

140 


DE  ARMY  AN'  NAVY  HOORAY  SONG. 

[Tune :  "  Hot  Time  in  de  Old  Town,"  etc.] 

March  along  an'  mind  de  music, 

Lef  an'  right  an'  lef  an'  right, 
Tramp,  tramp,  keep  step  for  we's  de  boys 

De  old  Dons  to  fight. 
Ol  de  world  ob  nations  knows  it, 

Spaniards  ol  knows  it,  too  ; 
Foun'  it  out  from  Yankee  Dewey, 

An'  Yankee  Doodledo. 
When  dey  heahs  dat  de  wah  it  done  begin, 
Some  folks  say  dat  de  Spaniards  gwine  to  win, 

But  wen  we  do  Spain  so  soon, 
We  uns  shout  wid  ol  our  might, 
Oh,  we's  de  boss  boys  gin'  de  old  Dons  to  fight, 
Halleluyah. 

CHORUS  : 

We's  boss  boys  de  ole  Spanish  Dons  to  fight, 
We's  boss  boys  de  ole  Spanish  Dons  to  fight, 

Oh,  glory  ! 

We's  boss  boys  de  old  Spanish  Dons  to  fight, 
We  thrashed  'em,  smashed  'em,  an'  we  sunk 
'em  out  ob  sight ! 

From  Manila  to  Matanzas, 

From  Montojo  to  de  mule, 
Oh  we  thrashed  'em  an'  we  smashed  'em, 

Sunk  'em  down  in  Davy's  pool ! 
141 


Santiago  was  so  berry  hot 

We  sent  dey  ships  below, 
We  was  Schley,  an'  strong  as  Sampson, 

It  was  Hobson's  choice,  you  know. 
Wen  shells  scream  an'  de  bullets  'gin  to  sing, 
Some  folks  say  Volunteers  won' t  do  a  ting, 

But  wen  de  Army  scrap, 
Like  de  Navy,  out  ob  sight, 
Den  we's  deboss  boys  'gin  de  ole  Dons  to  fight, 
Halleluyah ! 

Beat  de  drums  an'  bang  de  cymbals, 

Blow  de  bugles,  anchor  Jack, 
Poh  dahs  gwine  to  be  a  meetin' 

Whah  de  rations  ain'  t  hard  tack. 
Whah  yo  ol  knows  ebrybody, 

An'  dey  ol  knowses  you, 
An'  de  gals  am  ol  a  waitin' 

Foh  to  hug  us  howdydo. 
'Rah,  'rah,  'rah,  foh  de  Army,  Navy  cheer ! 
Boss  on  de  Ian'  an'  de  ocean  Oberseer  ! 
uOle  Glory,"  hold  her  high, 
An'  sing  wid  ol  yo  might, 
Oh,  we's  de  boss  boys  gin'  de  ole  Dons  to  fight, 
Halleluyah  ! 


142 


THE  MAINE  GOES   SAILING  ON. 

[Tune :  "John  Brown,"  etc.] 

The  Maine  wreck's  rusting  in  Havana  far  away, 
The  iron  tomb  of  heroes  Spaniards  buried  in  the 

bay, 
A  phantom  ship  is  sailing,  and  it  signals  ev'ry 

day, 

The  Maine  goes  sailing  on  ! 

CHOEUS  : 

Glory,  glory,  wave  Old  Glory, 
Glory,  glory,  tell  the  story  ! 
Glory,  glory,  tell  the  story  ! 
The  Maine  goes  sailing  on. 

That  phantom  ship  led  Dewey  by  Manila's  fort 

and  mine, 
Then  Spanish  balls  were  wasted  on  the  ghost  in 

battle  line, 
While    Dewey  sunk    the   Spaniards    and  their 

battleships  in  brine, 

The  Maine  goes  sailing  on ! 

That  phantom   ship  is  leading  and  our    Navy 

ploughs  the  sea  ; 

The  Army  saw  her  signal  and  it  rolls  the  reveille; 
We'll  drive  Spain  o'er  the  ocean  and  we'll  make 

slave  Cuba  free, 

The  Maine  goes  sailing  on  ! 

143 


YANKEE  DEWEY. 

Yankee  Dewey  took  a  trip 
Down  tew  Spain's  Manilly  ; 

Blew  up  fort  an'  battleship, 
Knocked  the  Spaniards  silly. 

CHORUS  : 
Yankee  Dewey,  blow  'em  up, 

With  your  guns  be  handy  ! 
Give  the  Spaniards  Yankee  Krupp, 

Yankee  Dewey  dandy. 

Whooping  down  to  Davy  Jones, 

Did  the  Spaniards  vanish  ; 
Davy's  groans  and  business  tones 

Now  are  all  in  Spanish. 

Yankeed  'leven  ships  of  war, 
Thousand  Spanish  grandees ; 

Never  lost  a  spar  er  Tar, 
Ain't  the  Yankees  dandies? 

Killed  Matanza  mules  that  day, 

(Don  is  short  fer  donkey) ; 
We  will  make  the  Spaniards  bray, 

When  with  Yanks  they  monkey. 

Dewey  showed  us  how  tew  dew, 

Sight  an'  pull  the  lanyard  ; 
Dew-way  is  the  right  way  tew 

Dew-way  with  the  Spaniard. 

144 


JOHN  AN'  JONATHAN. 

[England  was  with  us  in  the  war.  The  speech  of  Hon.  Joseph  Cham 
berlain,  of  the  Queen's  Cabinet,  halted  the  Powers.  He  honored  these  lines 
with  a  letter  of  confirmation.] 

Thar  never  wuz  on  ocean, 

Thar  never  wuz  on  Ian', 
A  nuther  two  sich  fellers 

Ez  John  an'  Jonathan  ; 
Right  now  thar  ain't  none  like  'em, 

Won' t  be  while  this  world  holds  ; 
Fer,  Jonathan  an'  John  made 

Ole  Natur  broke  the  moulds. 

Long  Jonathan  is  withy, 

An'  fisty  is  Ole  John  ; 
When  one  of  'em  is  rasslin', 

Then  tuther's  lookin'  on  ; 
Ye' 11  see  the  Eagle  clawin', 

Ef  Ole  John  gits  a  foul ; 
Ef  Jonathan  ain't  used  right, 

Ye  hear  the  Lion  growl. 

When  Jonathan  was  bubby, 

With  his  fust  trousers  on, 
He  seemed  a  leetle  prev'ous, 

Tew  bossy,  fisty  John  ; 
They  had  a  leetle  tussle 

'Bout  how  the  britches  fit, 
An'  Johnny  got  a  flummix 

He  am' t  got  over  yit. 

145 


The  Yankee  bub  wore  trousers 

In  spite  of  bossy  John  ; 
When  he  wuz  six  an'  thirty 

He  put  a  dress  suit  on  ; 
The  Britisher  thought  Yankee 

Wuz  cuttin'  of  him  out ; 
One  word  fetched  on  a  nuther, 

Until  they  had  a  fou't. 

The  Yank  is  wearin'  full  dress, 

By  which  you  understan' 
How  that  last  scuffle  ended 

Twixt  John  an'  Jonathan. 
Sence  then  they've  gone  on  growing 

An'  fisly  John  is  best 
All  east  of  the  ole  ocean, 

An'  Jonathan  all  west. 

An'  bein'  blood  relation, 

The  two  kin  disagree  ; 
But  when  one  gits  in  trouble, 

The  uther's  thar  tew  see 
A  fair  an'  honest  set-tew  ; 

Ef  more  than  one  jumps  on, 
Ye  see  the  coat  a  peelin' 

From  Jonathan,  er  John. 

Now  take  'em  both  tewgether, 
The  Stars  an'  Stripes  unfurled, 

The  Union  Jack  a  wavin', 
They  ain't  afeard  the  world  ! 

146 


An'  John  will  boss  the  sunrise, 

An'  Jonathan  the  set ; 
So,  while  they  stan'  tewgether, 

THE  Powers  (big  the)  hev  met. 


OUR  HALLOWED   HEROES. 

The  dead  that  died  for  victory, 
The  martyrs  that  must  ever  be 
Where  Truth  has  triumphed  in  the  fight 
That  makes  the  slave  world  free  ! 

For  them  the  glory  of  all  fame, 
Their  country's  tears,  immortal  name, — 
They've  gone,  as  God's  Elijah  went, — 
In  chariot  of  flame  ! 

Oh,  they  have  only  died  to  live  ! 
They  honor  us,  we  cannot  give ! 
The  heroes  of  the  blood-bought  crowns 
Have  that  prerogative. 

Our  tears  must  tell  what  martyrs  are  ; 
They  World-waved, — gave  our  Flag  a  Star, 
Blood  washed  the  robes  of  Peace,  and  died 
That  men  no  more  learn  war. 


147 


THE  YANKEE  GIRL  IN  WAR. 

She  wears  the  soldier  buttons 

Of  all  her  sweethearts  true, 
A  button  heads  her  hatpin, 

Her  bracelets  of  them,  too  ; 
They  gleam  around  her  girdle, 

They  nestle  in  her  curl, 
Compose  the  necklace,  earrings, 

Of  our  fair  Yankee  girl. 

Our  flag  waves  from  her  window, 

It  flutters  on  her  wheel, 
Adorns  her  horse  and  carriage, 

Her  poodle  and  her  seal ; 
Old  Glory  on  her  bosom 

In  love-knot  fold  and  furl ; 
Her  lover  is  a  soldier 

And  she's  his  Yankee  girl. 

O  loyal  red  her  lips  are, 

And  white  her  brow  and  soul, 
Her  cheeks  are  snow  and  crimson, 

Our  color  aureole ; 
The  stars  are  blue  eyes  beaming, 

The  Nation's  pride  and  pearl, 
The  soldier's  other  "Glory," 

God  bless  the  Yankee  girl ! 

148 


BOYS  AND  BUMBLEBEES. 

In  the  medder,  in  the  grass, 
Close  to  where  us  boys  'ud  pass 
On  our  way  to  school,  we  found 
Bumblebees'  nest  in  the  ground. 
Laze  Yadd,  me,  an'  Joel  Stump, 
Shellbark  Stoots,  an'  Hicky  Bump, 
Pap-of-th'- world,  an'  Bulger  Bill, 
Clowney  Emmett,  Charles-th-pill, 
Rooster  Jeems,  an'  them  twin  Loys, 
Blinky  Potts,  an'  other  boys. 
Run  a  stick  down  in  the  nest, 
Then  we  up  an'  run  our  best ! 

Bumblebees  just  tilled  the  air ! 
Bumblebees  flew  ev'ry where  ! 
Us  boys  all  a  layin'  still, 
An'  a  laffin'  fit  to  kill. 
When  they  settled  down,  we  'lowed 
We'd  charge  on  'em  in  a  crowd, 
Whip  an'  slap  our  hats  about, 
Kill  'em  all  as  they  come  out. 

Down  we  swooped  upon  the  nest, 
Me  an'  Laze  Yadd  'hind  the  rest; 
For  though  minus  stripes  an'  spurs, 
Me  an'  Laze  was  officers  ! 

151 


Shellbark  Stoots  stuck  in  a  stick, 
Bumblebee  popped  out  as  quick ! 
Joel  Stump  just  mashed  him  flat, 
Next  'un  fell  by  Hicky's  hat ; 
Us  boys  shoutin'  with  the  fun, 
Killin'  of  'em  one  by  one. 
Then  it  somehow,  someway  seems 
That  ere  awkward  Rooster  Jeems, 
Bein'  crosseyed,  missed  a  bee  ! 
Zip  !  it  lit  red  hot  on  me  ! 

Fust  we  kno'd  was  twin  Loy  screams, 
An'  the  yells  of  Rooster  Jeems, 
An'  the  shrieks  of  Joel  Stump, 
An'  the  whoops  of  Hicky  Bump ! 
Laze  Yadd  hoppin'  in  the  air, 
Clawin'  bees  out  of  his  hair ! 
Shellbark  Stoots  struck  for  the  crick, 
Bees  a  swarmin'  on  him  thick  ! 
Blinky  Potts'  feet  flingin'  dirt, 
Had  one  in  his  ragged  shirt ! 
Pap-th-world  would  allus  fight, 
Went  to  slappin'  left  an'  right ; 
Faster  7ie  fought  bees  did,  too, 
Clawin',  dancin',  then,  "Boohoo!" 

Bulger,  awful  to  behold, 
Rolled  an'  yelled  an'  yelled  an'  rolled  ! 
Clowney  Emmett's  circus  ring — 
Ought  to  seen  the  bumbles  sting ! 
Faces,  sommersets,  was  he, 

152 


Roared  like  a  menazlieree  ! 

Charles-th-pill  was  killin'  bees, 

Like  a  doctor  folks  lie  sees, 

Till  some  way  the  bees  got  in, 

Dose  of  his  own  medicine — 

He  rolled  grass  an'  shrieked  an'  spun, 

Run  an'  bawled  an'  bawled  an'  run  ! 

Mearunnin',  jumpin'  high, 

Ev'ry  jump  a  panther  cry  ! 

Ev'ry  time  I  lit  I'd  beg — 

Bee  was  in  my  trouser  leg  ! 

Never  had  a  little  thing, 

Boost  me  like  that  critter's  sting ! 

Ev'ry  time  I  made  a  grab, 

I  would  get  another  stab 

That  'ud  make  me  cut  an'  prance, 

So  as  you  could  hear  my  pants 

Buzzin' ,  like  a  circle  saw  ! 

Me  a  yellin'  Murder  ! — Ma  ! 

Till  Ma  come  an',  spankin'  me, 

Ma,  Ma  killed  the  bumblebee. 

Ought  to  seen  us  nex'  day — my ! 
We  all  thought  we's  gonter  die  ! 
Goose-eggs  lumps  was  in  our  hair, 
In  our  clothes,  an'  ev'ry where. 
Laze  Yadd  had  the  big-head  so 
You'd  a  thought  he  owned  a  show  ; 
Head  was  puffed  so  big  an'  fat, 
Had  to  wear  his  daddy's  hat. 

153 


Joel  Stump  stiff  in  each  cord, 
Head  up  like  a  foreign  lord  ; 
Lips  stuck  out  in  scornful  curls, 
Haughty  as  a  Vassar  girl's. 
Pap-th-world  was  black  an'  blued 
Ev'ry  zone  an'  lattertude. 
Bulger's  skin  was  stretched  drum  tight, 
Slep'  a  standin'  up  all  night ! 
Emmett's  swellin'  all  took  place 
When  he  made  a  funny  face  ; 
All  the  funny  swelled  an'  staid, 
Funniest  thing  that's  ever  made  ! 
Folks  'ud  laff  an'  couldn't  quit. 
So  their  laffin'  at  him  yit. 

Closed  the  mouth  of  Charles-th-pill. 
Had  to  feed  him  through  a  quill ! 
Hicky's  eyes  was  both  shut  up, 
Looked  just  like  a  day  ole  pup  ! 
Poultices  of  mother- wort 
Where  the  holes  was  in  his  shirt. 
One  them  twins  stung  in  the  face, 
Tother  in  another  place, 
So  that,  'ceptin'  in  their  bawl, 
Them  Loys  wasn'  t  twins  at  all ! 
Rooster's  bulb  nose  had  the  bloat, 
Plenty  big  enough  to  vote  ; 
One  his  peepers  bunged  so  tight 
That  his  cross-eyes  looked  all  right. 


154 


Blinky's  mouth  so  big  an'  wide, 
Course  the  bumbles  got  inside 
When  he's  yellin',  an'  they  stung 
Blinky's  elafontus  tongue; 
Swelled  it  till  it  stopped  his  breath, 
An'  he  like  to  choked  to  death. 

That  bee  in  my  trouser  legs, 
Stung  an'  swelled  my  runnin'  pegs  ; 
Skin  so  tight  my  knees  was  gone, 
Couldn't  git  my  trousers  on  ! 
Then  our  paps  with  raw  cow  skin 
Larruped  all  the  stingers  in  ! 
An'  us  boys  now  all  agrees, 
Our  paps'  stingin'  beat  the  bees. 


155 


BICYCLE  SONG. 

[Tune :  "The  Low  Back  Car."] 

When  first  I  met  sweet  Katy, 

'Twas  on  the  broad  highway, 
She  "scorched"  as  she  rode  on  her  high-gear' d 

wheel 

In  her  cycle  costume  gay. 
There's  not  a  bird  in  the  summer  air, 

The  flashing  wings  reveal, 
That  will  compare  with  the  girl  so  fair, 
As  she  rides  on  her  high-gear' d  wheel; 
As  she  rides  on  her  high-gear' d  wheel, 
She  breaks  even  hearts  of  steel, 
She  smiles — rings  her  bell, 
The  toll-gate  man — Well, 
He  "  dead-heads"  that  high-gear' d  wheel ! 

She  passed  me  on  the  mountain, 

A  whirr  of  wheel  and  gown, 
An  angel  was  seen  descending, 

As  she  went  coasting  down  ! 
All  manly  hearts  were  wounded, 

With  darts  they  long  to  feel ; 
For  the  arrows  fly  as  she  goes  by, 

The  queen  of  the  high -gear' d  wheel. 

The  queen  of  the  high-gear' d  wheel, 

Giving  wounds  that  may  never  heal ; 
But  lovers  will  die  for  a  glance  of  her  eye, 

As  she  rides  on  her  high-gear' d  wheel. 
156 


I'd  rather  have  a  wheel,  sir, 

And  with  my  Katy  ride, 
Than  coach  and  four  and  golden  galore, 

And  an  heiress  for  my  bride. 
For  the  heiress  would  ride  without  me, 

With  maid  and  coachman,  too, 
But  Katy  would  ride  beside  me 

And  lend  me  her  gum  to  chew  ! 

So  we'd  ride  on  the  high -gear' d  wheel, 

We'd  stop  in  the  shade  a  great  deal ; 
Good  bicycle  tires  a  lover  requires, 

When  riding  a  high-gear' d  wheel. 

When  married  and  riding  tandem, 

With  Katy's  puggy  pup, 
I'll  blow  up  her  tire,  and  maybe  her  ire, 

And  tire  of  her  blowing  up. 
But  we'll  ride  out  the  Century, 

Let  fortune  smile,  or  frown, 
I'll  do  the  work  going  up  the  hill, 

And  Katy  in  coasting  down; 
So  we'll  ride  on  our  high-gear' d  wheel, 

Together  in  woe,  or  weal ; 
If  we  take  a  header, 
Her  head  will  be  redder, 

As  we  ride  on  our  high-gear' d  wheel. 


157 


SPRING  IS  SPRUNG. 

The  gentle  spring  is  springing, 
The  birds  their  songs  have  sung, 

Their  winglets  all  are  winging, 
The  spring  will  soon  be  sprung. 

The  swallows  all  were  swallowed 
By  Autumn,  as  they  ought; 

And  then  the  fall  was  followed 
By  winter,  as  I  wot. 

'Twas  polka,  pork  and  poker, 
From  pray  unto  deprave  : 

'Twas  coffee,  cough,  and  coffin, 
From  gravy  to  the  grave ! 

From  woodsaw  to  the  seesaw, 
We  pass  from  this  to  thus  ; 

From  spare-rib  to  the  sparrow, 
Spared  to  asparagus. 

We've  shoved  the  frosty  shovel, 
With  chill  and  the  chilblain ; 

With  sleighs  we  valiant  sleighers, 
Old  Winter  now  have  sleighn  ! 

We  will  not,  wal-nut,  dough-nut, 
With  all  our  cider  sigh  ; 

From  Christmas  to  the  chrysalis, 
We  make  the  butter-fly. 

158 


The  shanty  in  the  clearing, 
Reveals  the  chanticleer : 

Likewise  the  dog  and  dogwood, 
Which  bark  o'er  winter's  bier. 

The  house-dog's  pants  are  shorter, 

His  pauses  in  his  lap  ; 
The  lazy  creek  is  creeking, 

I  hear  the  water  gape  ! 

Behold  the  bird  and  horse  fly, 
With  all  their  wings  awang  ! 

The  fire  fly  makes  the  fur  fly, 
The  spring  will  soon  be  sprang. 

The  forests  all  are  boughing, 
The  mountains  all  about : 

The  possum  and  the  blossom, 
Elbows  and  flour  are  out. 

Dost  ask  if  spring  is  springing  ? 

Behold  the  answ'ring  ants ! 
Likewise  the  blooming  bloomer ! 

Hark  !  the  bicycle  pants  ! 
They're  sweeter  and  their  sweater, 

The  gals  and  the  gallants. 

You  hear  the  crowing  rooster, 
And  see  the  roosting  crow : 

'Round  Henry  Hawkins'  hen'ry, 
The  hawking  hen-hawks  go. 

161 


The  ant  is  at  her  antics, 
The  cattle  sweating  brows  ; 

The  coming  leaf  is  leaving, 
Behold  the  bow  wow  wows  ! 

The  circus  and  the  caucus, 
Their  humbug  rings  have  rung  : 

The  Docs  and  ducks  are  quacking, 
The  gentle  Spring  is  sprung  ! 


OOTSIE  TOOTSIE. 

Ootsie  Tootsie  is  a  king, 

On  his  cradle  throne  he  rocks, 
Rules  o'er  all,  and  ev'ry thing, 

Scepter  is  a  rattle  box. 
Maids  of  honor  wait  his  will, 

Courtiers  fly  at  his  command  : 
Roaring  war,  or  peace,  be  still, 

Follows  as  he  waves  his  hand. 

Ootsie  Tootsie' s  court  is  gay, 

Holds  receptions,  kings  must  go  ; 
All  the  world  must  tribute  pay, 

Meekly  kiss  his  papal  toe. 
Kneel  and  knuckle  at  his  nod, 

Praise  and  flatter  him  alone  ; 
Worshiped  like  a  heathen  god, 

Ootsie  Tootsie  on  his  throne. 

162 


Ootsie  Tootsie  has  a  tire, 

Though  the  day  is  scorching  hot ; 
So  must  ev'ry  one  perspire, 

While  we  fan  him  in  his  cot. 
Ootsie  Tootsie  has  a  light 

Ready  for  his  midnight  whim  ; 
Runs  a  restaurant  all  night, 

Where  nobody  eats  but  him. 

Ootsie  Tootsie' s  chariot  grand 

Has  a  footman  and  Jehu  ; 
For  his  chariot  runs  by  hand, 

All  are  footmen,  horses,  too. 
Ootsie  Tootsie  rides  all  day, 

Cab  or  cradle,  as  he  crows  ; 
Rides  at  night  the  queerest  way, 

Rides  his  pa  who  rears — but  goes. 

Tootsie  runs  a  music  hall, 

Where  two  stars  of  opera 
Answer  ev'ry  curtain  call, 

All  night  artists — pa  and  ma. 
When  he  leads  the  chorus  grand, 

Tootsie  boldly  sings  the  air ; 
Beats  time  on  his  popper's  head, 

Always  draws — his  popper's  hair  ! 

Ootsie  Tootsie  on  his  throne, 
All  the  world  in  mourning  goes, 

Ev'ry  voice  in  undertone, 
All  are  walking  on  their  toes. 

163 


Puss  and  puppy  locked  out  doors, 
Cringingly  around  we  creep  ; 

For  the  king  now  sweetly  snores  : — 
Ootsie  Tootsie  is  asleep. 


TRAVELLING  MAN'S   SONG. 

Ev'ry where,  we  are  there, 

Riding  in  a  rig,  or  on  the  rail  ; 
Wet  or  dry,  freeze  or  fry, 

Cyclone,  blizzard,  snow,  or  sleet,  or  hail. 
Dust,  or  mud,  fire,  or  flood, 

Never  alters  anything  we  plan, 
"  Grit  and  go"  is,  you  know, 

The  motto  of  the  jolly  Trav'ling  Man. 

CHORUS : 

Grab  our  grip,  O  we  skip, 
Got  to  hustle,  as  we  travel  o'er  the 

land! 
And  the  world's  business  whirls 

With  the  sample  case  we  carry  in  our 
hand. 

Never  say,  "night,"  or  "day," 
Train- time's  all  we  know  upon  the  route  ; 

Goods  we  sell,  and  we  tell 
All  the  latest  stories  that  are  out. 

164 


Read  or  smoke,  play  or  joke, 
Forty  miles  an  hour,  when  we  can  ; 

Or  we  wait,  "  train  is  late," 

Hoodoo  of  the  jolly  Trav'ling  Man. 

Wear  good  clothes,  money  goes 

Freely  as  the  current  of  our  lives  ; 
Help  the  poor,  and  be  sure 

Good  to  "girley,"  or  to  little  wives. 
Run  campaigns  on  the  trains  ; 

Where  we  "  Sunday  over"  join  the  choir  ; 
Lead  the  band,  lend  a  hand 

Running  with  the  engine  to  a  fire. 

In  our  place,  game,  or  race, 

Giving  people  "  pointers  "  how  to  win  ; 
Nominate  the  candidate, 

Give  results  before  returns  are  in. 
We  can  work  the  hotel  clerk, 

Give  the  baggage  smasher  blanky  blank  ; 
Hold  a  baby  for  a  lady, 

Give  her  up  a  seat  without  a  thank. 

An  immense  intelligence 

Office,  with  the  answer  always  free  ; 
Make  a  speech,  maybe  preach, 

All  around  athletics,  sir,  are  we. 
Philosophee,  theologee, 

When  and  where  our  little  world  began  ; 
We  can  tell  if  there's  a  h — hotel, 

Easy  for  the  jolly  Trav'ling  Man ! 

165 


Sample  case  is  his  face, 

What  he  is,  the  human  and  divine  ; 
He's  a  true  bread-winner  to 

The  little  house  he   travels  for,   called 

"mine." 
There's  an  Inn  where  they've  been 

Welcoming  the  world,  since  it  began  ; 
Up,  there,  sir,  the  Register, 

Opens  for  the  weary  Trav'ling  Man  ! 


DEALING  IN  OPTIONS. 

O  how  dear  to  the  Greeny  the  deals  made  in 

options, 
When  the  wild  speculation  returns  them  to- 

view ! 

Little  "Bucket  Shop,"  "call  board,"  the  tele 
graph  ticking, 
And  the  way  he  was  caught,  and  the  ' '  lamb 

was  fleeced,"  too ! 
Then  the  wide-spreading  margin  he  figured  in 

fancy, 
And  the  money  he  lost  when  the  grain  he 

bought  fell ; 
How  when  "stuck"  he  was  "bled,"  anddrawed 

on  to  stay  by  it — 

By  that  fool-killer's  bucket  that  hung  in  the — 
well, 

166 


The  old  "rope-in"   bucket,  the  "  wire-tapped'7 

bucket, 

The  Backet-Shop  bucket  that  worked  him  so 
well. 

He  had  met  "bulls"  and  "bears"  in  his  home 

in  the  country, 
Knew  "the  ropes"  from  the  clothes-line  up  to 

the  lasso  ; 
He  had  plowed  corn  and  wheat  till  he  knew  how 

to  "raise"  'em, 
Or  to  put  "  down"  the  same — when  a-hungry, 

you  know. 
Knew  the  "shorts,"  and  the  "longs,"  and  the 

bran  and  the  middlings, 
So  he  thought  he  would  deal  in  grain  options  a 

spell ; 
He  had  three  hundred  dollars,  could  "bull,"  but 

not  bear  it, 

So  he  gored  a  big  hole  in  the — wait,  I  will  tell 
Of  the  old  "  soak  'em  "  bucket,  the  wire-tapped 

bucket, 

The  Bucket-Shop  bucket  that  worked  him  so 
well. 

He  had  downed  Sage  and  sausage,  so  Russell  and 

Phil  A. 

He  would  down  at  a  morsel  of  millions  he'd 
make  ; 


167 


Did  n't  he    know    a   "Corner" — whenever    he 

turned  it? 
He  would  "corner  the  market"  and  then  work 

the  "break." 
For  he  knew  "  Calls,"   and  "Straddles"— from 

calling  the  cattle 
And  by  straddling  a  mule  when  he  went  to 

Rozelle ; 
As  for  u  Milking  the  street," — why,  he  milked  a 

whole  dairy ! 
As  for  "  Watering   stock,"  golly,   there  was 

the  well ! 

The  old  yoke  'em  bucket,  the  liar-bound  bucket, 
The  Bucket-Shop  bucket,  it  worked  him  so  well. 

So  he  threw  his  three  hundred  at  Wall  Street's 

big  giants, 

Like  the  pebble  of  David  of  long,  long  ago  ; 
(This  fine  figure  is  strong,  and  I'd  like  to  pursue  it, 

But  the  figure  will  boomerang  if  I  do  so). 
For  a  broker  had  sold  him  a  "  tip,"  "a  dead  sure 

thing;" 
When  the   "drop"   came,   of  course  on   the 

Greeny  it  fell ;  , 

And^a  little  "  dead  duck"  that  was  plucked  and 

pin-feathered, 
Was  thrown  out  of  the  bucket  that  rose  from 

the — well, 

The  old  hoax 'em  bucket,  the  fool-killer's  bucket, 
The  Bucket-Shop  bucket  that  worked  him  so 
well! 

168 


MARY  JANE  HAW. 

I  love  the  birthday  of  our  land, 
I  love  to  hear  the  Hawville  Band, 

I  love  the  Declaration  ; 
I  love  the  lemonade  and  swings, 
And  boys,  and  girls,  and  other  things, 

Our  Nation's  celebration. 

I  watch  our  flag  float  from  the  pole, 
And  great  emotions  fill  my  soul, 

To  tell  which  I'm  not  able  ; 
As  Hail  Columbia  rends  the  sky, 
And  all  the  latest  styles  go  by— 
(Looking    at  her   manuscript,   she  says : 

changed  that  line) 
And  ginger- cakes  and  chicken  fry, 

Are  spread  upon  the  table. 

Of  all  the  days  that '  s  in  a  year, 
I  love  July  the  Fourth  most  dear, 

Our  great  E  Pluribus  Unum  ; 
And  I  shall  love  it  best  alway 
Of  any — 'cept  the  weddin'  day, 

Which  it  can't  come  too  soon — ughm  ! 

O  patriots,  'twas  the  Eagle's  claw 
Tore  Freedom  from  the  Lion's  paw, 

And  set  our  flag  on  high  ! 
Oh,  our  forefathers  died  and  fit, 
And  our  foremothers  died  and — knit, 

For  our  Fourth  of  July  ! 

171 


THE  FIRST  DAY  AT  SCHOOL. 

Now,  'en,  I's  been  to  'cool  all  day, 

An'  woman  wot  you  call 
A  teacher,  one  wot  knows  so  much, 

She  don'  know  nossin'  't  all ! 
She  had  to  ask  a  boy  how  much 

'At  one  an'  two  would  be. 
An' ,  sir,  she  had  to  call  me  up 

To  show  her  A  an'  B  ! 

She  toud  n't  spell  cat,  ner  boy,  ner  dog, 

An'  she  had  to  ask  me  how  ; 
An'  in  a  pictur  book  she  had, 

She  tould  n't  tell  a  cow  ; 
They  showed  her  how  to  read  an'  write, 

An'  mark  upon  a  wall ; 
She  askin'  questions  all  a  time ; 

She  don'  know  nossin'  'tall ! 

We  all  jus'  had  to  keep  so  still, 

You  tould  n't  hear  a  soun'  ; 
A  squallers'  workin',  oh,  so  hard, 

An'  teacher  loafin'  roun'  ! 
An'  wen  a  teacher  turn  her  back, 

So  'at  her  tould  n't  see, 
'At  ugly,  red-head  Bunker  boy, 

He  made  a  face  at  me  ! 

172 


An'  one  boy  blo'd  a  paper  wad, 

An'  made  a  squallers  grin. 
An'  nuzzer  boy  'hind  anuzzer  boy, 

He  stick' d  him  wiv  a  pin  ! 
An'  wen  a  book  hide  teacher's  eyes, 

'At  great  big  Johnny  Duff, 
He  reach  across  to  Sister  Kate, 

An'  kiss  her,  sure  enough  ! 

An'  'en  we  all  went  out  to  play, 

But  foh  we  tould  begin, 
She  ring  'at  hateful,  baby  bell, 

An'  made  us  all  turn  in. 
An'  by  an'  by  was  dinnah  time, 

An'  some  had  cake  an'  pie  ; 
An'  one  girl  let  me  chew  her  gum, 

'Cause  I  was  gon'  to  cry  ! 

An'  'en  a  man  turn  to  a  doh, 

An'  teacher  go  out  there, 
She  staid,  an'  staid,  an'  Sammy  Stoots, 

Pulled  Billy  Wellses'  hair  ! 
An'  wisperd,  an'  a  acted  up, 

Ner  wuz  n't  'fraid,  you  know, 
About  a  teacher  tummin'  in, 

'  Cause  teacher  had  a  beau ! 


173 


THE  GRAVE  OF  A  STAR. 

[The  children  saw  the  Author  coming  to  their  picnic  at  the  lake.  Curly 
haired  Charley  Hyde  ran  to  meet  the  visitor  crying,  "  Oh,  please  write  me  & 
poem  on  this  lake!  "  It  was  written  that  day  to  please  the  boy  who  is  now- 
happy  in  the  home  above  the  stars.] 

Far  back  in  days  unnumbered, 
The  morning  Stars  were  young, 

Around  their  home  in  heaven 
Like  children  played  and  sung. 

The  moon  was  their  sweet  mother, 

As  all  good  mothers  are, 
And  in  her  silver  cradle, 

She  rocked  each  baby  star. 

There  all  the  stellar  children 

Had  nothing  else  to  do, 
But  play,  and  play  forever, 

In  meadow-lands  of  blue. 

Good  children,  bright  and  happy, 

Until  one  little  star 
Beheld  the  golden  sunbeams 

Fall  from  the  sun,  afar. 

It  dropped  the  silver  playthings. 

Began  to  cry  and  scold, 
For  Mother  Moon  to  give  it 

The  shining  rays  of  gold. 

174 


In  vain  she  tried  to  please  it, 
With  countless  silver  toys  : 

It  only  grew  more  naughty, 
Just  like  some  little  boys. 

One  Evening  as  these  'children 

Put  star  rays  in  the  dew, 
This  Naughty  saw  the  sunbeams 

That  lay  in  plainest  view 
Upon  the  hills  of  Afton  ; 

It  vowed  to  have  them,  too. 

While  Mother  Moon  was  rocking 

A  baby  star  to  sleep, 
Sly  Naughty  dropped  its  playthings,. 

And,  with  a  sudden  leap, 

It  sprang  to  catch  the  sunbeams — 
Down,  down  the  dizzy  height 

It  fell,  all-radiant,  beaming 
Athrill  with  strange  delight. 

The  golden  rays  all  vanished  ! 

Bewildered,  frightened,  lost, 
The  falling  star  descended, 

Just  like  a  fair  soul  tossed, 

Down,  down  the  deep  of  darkness — 
All  heaven  could  not  save  ; 

It  plunged  to  Earth,  self-buried 
In  that  deep,  open  grave. 

175 


The  tears  of  heaven's  children    . 

Shed  for  the  lost  one's  sake, 
In  that  grave  falling  nightly, 

There  formed  a  crystal  lake. 

And  near  the  Susquehanna, 

Among  the  Afton  hills, 
It  may  be  seen  in  passing, 

Unfed  by  creeks,  or  rills. 

The  depth  cannot  be  fathomed  ; 

'Tis  pure,  and  bright,  and  clear, 
Born  not  of  earth,  but  heaven : 

Just  like  an  angel's  tear. 

Around  the  mirrored  margin, 
To  warn  'gainst  golden  dreams, 

Bloom  rare,  gold  water  lilies, 
Poor  Naughty' s  golden  beams. 

And  oft,  upon  the  bosom, 
Unmoved  by  wind  or  wave, 

The  moon  lies  like  a  mother 
Upon  a  lost  child's  grave. 


176 


JUMPING  THE  ROPE. 

Upon  the  air  is  laughter, 
With  ringing  shouts  of  glee, 

And  flying  feet  of  fairies 
In  wildest  revelry. 

The  glint  of  golden  tresses, 
And  gleam  of  sparkling  eyes  ; 

In  gaily  colored  costumes 
They  flit  like  butterflies. 

A  gamboling  of  Genie, 
Defying  rhyme,  or  trope— 

The  revel  of  the  school  girls, 
That  jump  the  skipping-rope. 

The  happy  turners  swinging 

The  pendulum  of  mirth  ; 
The  merry  dancers  angels 

Of  heaven,  and  then  of  earth. 

More  beautiful  their  ballet 

Than  sun's  famed  dancing  beams  ; 
JMore  musical  their  laughter 

Than  ripple  of  the  streams. 


179 


THE  CHURCH  GOOSE. 

There's  a  What-is-it  strays  into  meeting, 

A  queer  creature  with  down  near  its  nose  ; 
And  it  hisses,  disturbing  the  worship ; 

But  it  isn'  t  a  boy,  though  in  clothes. 
Not  a  bird,  though  it  wears  some  fine  feathers, 

Surely  not  a  girl  acting  so  loose  ! 
So  the  down,  and  the  feathers,  and  hissing, 

Show  the  What-is-it  is  a  church  goose. 

"  Whis,   whis,    whisper,   whis,    whisper,    whis,, 
whisper  ! " 

Goes  the  church  goose  the  preachers  dread  so  ; 
"  Whis,    whis,    whisper,    whis,    whisper,    whis> 
whisper  !  " 

The  goose  hisses,  whose  hissing  all  know  ; 
For  the  church  goose  gets  back  in  a  corner, 

Or  it  ganders  its  neck  somewhere  'round, 
And  it  hisses,  till,  though  it  look  human, 

We  all  know  'tis  a  goose  by  the  sound. 

Be  it  gosling,  or  goosey,  or  gander, 

In  a  corner,  or  strayed  in  a  choir, 
Yet  a  goose  is  a  goose  if  it  hisses, 

Or  if  human,  should  hush,  or  retire. 
Let  no  whisper,  no  act  annoy  others, 

Unless  sure  of  a  righteous  excuse  ; 
For    "Whis,    whisper,     whis,     whisper,    whis,, 
whisper ! " 

Shows  the  hissing  and  hated  church  goose. 

180 


THE  BABY. 

These  are  not  babes,  but  baby, 

(Her  ma  says  there's  but  one,} 
And  so  there  is  no  other 

True  child  phenoma — none  ! 
These  angel  smiles  (one's  impy,) 

That  challenge  you  to  kiss, 
Show  she's  the  sweetest,  cutest — 

None  in  the  world  like  this ! 

O  when  she's  "making  faces," 

She's  Ella  Cutionist, 
And  always  "brings  the  house  down," 

With  ev'ry  facial  twist. 
She  out-does  all  your  Delsarte, 

As  Ella  June  Meade-Cake  ; 
The  E-'s  are  all  unravelled, 

The  gestures,  "  our  own  make." 

In  comedy,  she  stars  it ; 

She  wrinkles  up  her  nose, 
And  kicks  her  skirt  like  ballets, 

She  dances  with  her  toes. 
She  comes  back  for  the  encore, 

We  bow  to  her  "  Goo  goo  ! " 
Re-call,  and  keep  re-calling, 

Until  she's  tired,  too. 

183 


But  really,  Grand  Op'ra 

Is  where  she's  star  and  moon  ; 
And  when  she  sings  her  top  note, 

All  else  seems  out  of  tune. 
For  orchestra,  her  rattle  ; 

She  sings,  and  trills,  and  soars ; 
Parquette  is  ma  and  grandma, 

Rest  balcony — out-doors. 

Contortionist,  she's  born  that ; 

Why,  she  can  suck  her  toe  ! 
Her  limbs  will  bend  and  double, 

Just  like  a  piece  of  dough  ! 
There  never  was  a  twister 

Could  "bring  the  whole  house  down, 
Like  she  can — when  we  bathe  her, 

Or  put  on  Nighty  Gown. 

She's  statuesque  in  posing, 

(As  stiff  in  changing  dress,) 
As  fair  as  Parian  marble, 

All  grace  and  loveliness. 
She  is  a  model  baby, 

A  cherub,  angel — well, 
Look  at  her  in  the  picture, 

And  see  if  you  can  tell. 


184 


GHOSES  IN  THE  BARN. 

The  barn's  haunted  loft  is  gloomy  and  still ; 

The  spider  webs  cover  the  mould, 
Where  sun-arrows  shoot  through  holes  in  the  roof 

And  rafters  are  lined  with  gold. 
Hist !  harken  to  goblin's  footsteps,  or  wings ! 

I  hear  them  so  plain,  don' t  you  ? 
The  ghoses  us  children  find  in  the  barn  ; 

They  flit  round  and  cry,  "  Woo,  woo  !  " 

No,  sir,  it  is  not  the  rats  in  the  mow, 

Nor  voice  of  the  wind  that  moans  ; 
They're  ghoses  that's  hauntin'  the  old  barn  loft ; 

With  awful  screeches  and  groans. 
We  hide  and  we  watch,  all  holdin'  our  breath, 

We  hear  and  we  see  them,  too  ; 
By  day,  or  by  night,  when  th'  wind  's  bio  win* 
right, 

They  dodge  round  and  cry,  "  Woo,  woo  !  " 

At  night  they  bewitch  the  horses'  long  manes, 

They  tangle  the  harness  all : 
They  tie  the  halters  in  goblinses  knots, 

They  let  loose  a  horse  in  a  stall. 
They  swing  in  the  rafters  spider  web  swings, 

They  dance,  and  they  drink  the  dew  ; 
They  revel  all  night,  and  when  it  is  light, 

They  flit  'round  and  cry,  "  Woo,  woo  ! " 

185 


<K)TLEIB'S   CHARGE    OF    THE    LIGHT 
BRIGADE. 

Ein  half  mile,  tvvsei  half  mile, 
Drei  half  mile,  dot  vay, 
Droo  der  valley,  scart  to  det, 
Rode  sex  hundert  Calfalry. 
"All-treat  der  Lightnin'  Prigade  ! 
En'mies  vhas  comin'  !  "  he  yelt ; 
Out  of  dot  valley  alive, 
Skip  der  sick  hundert ! 

"Git  dere  dher  Lightnin'  Prigade  !  " 
Vhas  dere  a  man  dot  shtaid  ? 
Not  dot  anypotty  knows  'pout, 
Oxcept  he  blundert! 
None  of  'em  ox  dher  vhy, 
All  of  'em  on  dher  fly  ! 
Deirs  but  to  flew,  er  die  : 
Out  of  dot  valley  alive — 
Skip  dher  sick  hundert ! 

Big  guns  dhis  vhay  of  'em, 

Big  guns  dot  vhay  of  'em, 

Big  guns  behindt  of  'em, 

Vhay  off,  trolleyed  und  tundert ! 

Shtraight  vrom  dot  shot  und  shell, 

All  of  'em  vent,  pell  mell ! 

Motto  vhas  "I.  X.  L.  ! " 

186 


Howled  like  a  college  yell, 
Outrun  a  scart  gazelle, — 
Skippin'  sick  hundert ! 

Flashed  all  deir  bait  heads  bare  ! 
Shtraight  oop  shtand  deir  hair  ! 
Nef  er  vhas  zich  a  scare  ! 
All  of  'em  gittin'  dere  ! 
All  dher  vorldt  vhondert ! 
No  time  to  take  a  shmoke  ; 
Vip  deir  horse  shtrokety  shtroke  ; 
Some  of  deir  pottles  proke  ; 
Shiminy,  vot  a  shoke  ! 
Scattered  und  sundert, 
Facin'  dher  foe  mit  deir  back, 
Not, — notty  sick  hundert ! 

Big  hums  dis  vhay  of  'em, 
Big  hums  dot  vhay  of  'em, 
Big  hums  pehint  of  'em, 
Overed  und  undert ! 
Sound  like  dher  pullets  hum, 
Nearder  und  nearder  come, 
Like  bay 'nets  shtickt  'em  some, 
Scart  und  skeedadleum  ! 
Beat  deir  horse  like  a  drum  ! 
Fe  fi  foamin'  fum 
He  flew-ri-bus  unum 
Great  pandimoni-jmw 
Ab  squatula-fom — 
Awful  sick  hundert ! 

187 


Vhen  vill  dher  glory  fade  ? 
Vhen  vlias  a  pigger  fraid  ? 
O  dot  all-treat  dey  made  ! 
Vhasant  a  man  dot  shtayed, 
Oxcept  lie  blundert ! 
Hornets  vot  foolt  'em  so  ; 
Hornets  vill  shting  you  know  ! 
Dots  vot  dher  matter 
Mit  dher  sick  hundert  ! 


THE  NEW  WOMAN. 

When  the  "New  Woman"  votes, 

Then,  of  railroads  and  boats, 
She'll  be  president,  bossing  the  lines  ; 

And  the  old  man  must  kneel, 

And  to  her  must  appeal, 
When  he  wants  a  big  raise,  or  resigns. 

Then  the  old  ticket  punch, 

The  "ten  minutes  for  lunch," 
And  the  "tips,"  and  seat  porker,  must  go: 

You  will  not  have  to  wait, 

Nor  be  handled  like  freight, 
When  the  New  Woman  "dead-heads"  her 
beau. 


188 


THE  PRESS  CLUB  BOYS. 

[Written  for  the  "  Benefit  "  of  the  Press  Club  of  which  the  author  was 
a  member.    Tune :  "Colored  Knights  of  Pythias.1'] 

We're  Jolly  pencil  shovers, 

We're  always  on  the  go, 
Around  the  town  we're  huntin'  down 

The  latest  "  scoop,"  you  know  : 
A  nose  for  news,  a  "get-there  gait," 

We  write  for  pay  and  fame, 
We  have  to  do  the  world  each  day, 

From  Arts  to  foot-ball  game. 

CHOKUS : 

Oh  !  joy,  dear  boy, 

Let  your  heart  be  vocal, 
For  we  write  all  the  night, 

Hunt  all  day  the  local : 
We  report  Church  and  Court, 

All  the  news  and  noise, 
No  other  order  can  compare 

With  the  jolly  Press  Club  Boys. 

The  doctor  wants  a  mention, 

The  lawyer  wants  a  puff, 
The  preacher  wants  his  sermon  praised,. 

The  author  all  his  stuff  ; 

189 


The  politician  wants  a  boost, 

The  actor  wants  a  blow, 
The  farmer  wants  a  "write-up  "  on 

How  large  his  pumpkins  grow. 

The  ladies  want  a  notice, 

Of  ev'ry  ballroom  dress, 
And  how  they  look  with  diamonds  on, 

All  angel  loveliness  ; 
Oh  !  bless  the  darlings,  all  they  want 

They  ask  for,  get  it,  too, 
The  very  folks  of  all  the  world, 

We  love — to  interview. 

Our  paper  is  our  Banner, 

Both  night  and  day  unfurled, 
The  pencil  is  the  weapon,  boys, 

That  conquers  all  the  world  ; 
Our  uni-  "  form  "  is  loyal  type, 

It  always  "  falls  in  line," 
So  "press"  the  "columns,"  forward,  write  !- 

The  glory's  mine  and  thine. 


190 


THE  DEVIL'S  CHRISTMAS  "  PL" 

Not  on  the  horns  of  evil, 

Not  on  the  forked  tail ; 
But  on  the  printer's  devil, 

1  lift  the  mystic  veil. 

'Tis  Christmas  Eve,  and  midnight, 
And  all  the  day  he's  run  ; 

He's  lunched  on  paste,  lost  supper, 
To  get  his  day's  work  done. 

He  thinks  of  merry  Christmas, 
And  dreams  of  dinner  hot ; 

May  be  of  something  warmer 
Which  always  hits  the  spot. 

Takes  "  galley  proof,"  and  whistles  ; 

He  makes  "revise"  and  sings  ; 
He  "locks  the  form,"  his  laughter 

In  roar  and  riot  rings. 

He  lifts  the  ' '  form ' '  with  transport, 
His  goal  and  girl  are  nigh, 

And— Crash  !  Oh-h-h— the  devil 
Enjoys  his  Christmas  "  pi "  ! 


191 


BRUISE Y  THE  NEVVSEY. 

[Written  for,  and  read  at  the  Newsboys'  Banquet,  Omaha,  Neb.] 

Yes,  Bruisey  the  Newsey,  our  hero  is  he, 
A  soldier  whose  war  cry  is,  "Heruld  er  Bee! 
His  battles  are  bloodless,  except  in  the  "scraps" 
When  some  one  imposes  on  Bruisey,  perhaps. 
The  battle  he  fights  is  the  battle  for  bread, 
Where  even  the  children  are  found  with  the  dead. 
So,  early  and  late,  paper  banner  unfurled, 
Our  Bruisey  is  marching  with,  "Bee  er  a  Wurld?" 

Our  Bruisey  the  Newsey  is  not,  in  his  looks, 
The  handsome  dude  hero  you  read  of  in  books. 
He's  cross-eyed  and  freckled  ;  he  has  a  snub  nose, 
He's  out  at  his  elbows,  his  knees  and  his  toes  ; 
His  mouth,  when  it  opens  with,  "Heruld  er  Bee  !  " 
There's  nothing  of  Bruisey  left  for  you  to  see. 
His  yell  wakes  the  dummy  that  stands  in  the  store, 
The  big  wooden  Indian  is  scared  by  the  roar. 

Our  Bruisey  the  Newsey' s  great  mouth  is  his  pride 
At  these  Newsboy  dinners  where  mouths  are  so 

tried  ; 

His  mouth  is  so  wide,  he  finds  it  no  bother 
To  eat  with  one  corner  and  drink  with  the  other, 
And  room  in  the  middle  for  Bruisey  to  roar, 
"Them  victuals  is  clean  out  of  sight ;  want  some 

more ! " 

192 


Ah,  no  one  with  Bruisey  can  come  to  the  scratch, 
When  there  is  a  "free-for-all"  pie-eating  match. 

Our  Bruisey  belongs  to  the  Poor  Peoples'  Club. 
The  world  is  their  bath-room  ;  the  river,  the  tub ; 
The  streets  and  the  stairways,  gymnasium  hall, 
And  all  out  of  doors  for  their  banquet  and  bawl. 
The  show-bills  and  signs  they  may  read  as  they 

run, 

The  largest  library  found  under  the  sun. 
They  smoke  just  the  finest  cigars  they  can  find ; 
Not  whole  ones,  but  stub  ones — economy  kind. 

Our  Bruisey,  whenever  you  papers  decline, 
Will  flourish  a  brush  and  shout,  "  Shine  'em  up! 

shine  ? 

It's  only  a  nickel,  Boss  ;  shine  'em  so  bright 
A  dorg  can't  look  at  'em  'thout  wantin'  to  fight. 
Hyar,  set  up  yer  foot,  Boss  ;  nice  hoof  you've  got! 
Does  I  go  to  Sunday  Skule  ? — well,  I  guess  not ; 
'Bout  then  I  sells  papers,  an'  course  I  can't  go  ; 
But  I  leads  de  gallery  gang  at  de  show ! 
I'm  Bruisey  de  Newsey,  Boss  !    Tother  foot  now. 
Me  sing?  betcher  boots !  Sing 'Little  Bow  Wow,' 
An'  'Arter  De  Ball,'  an'  a  '  High  Ole  Time :  '- 
They're  done  ;  fer  boots  an'  advice,  Boss,  a  dime! 
Afraid  my  soul  '11  be  lost  ?  well,  my  shoes 
Is  knocked  out ;  but  not  so  de  sole's  gonter  lose. 
Wurld-Heruld  er  Bee  !    All  'bout  how  newsboys 

dine ! 
A  big  bloody  murder  !     Shine  'em  up  !  Shine  1 " 

193 


Our  Bruisey  the  Newsey  works  bard  for  a  dime  ; 
But  what  did  I  see  Bruisey  doing  one  time  ? 
He  took  all  the  money  for  boots  he  had  shined, 
And  gave  to  a  little  newsboy  who  was  blind ! 
And  when  the  blind  newsey  was  sick,  ev'ry  day 
An  orange,  or  something,  took  Bruisey  that  way. 
At  the  death,  all  the  flowers  that  all  the  world 

gave, 
Were  Bruisey 's  !   and  took  ev'ry  cent  he  could 

save. 

Oh,  Bruisey  the  Newsey  is  ragged  and  rough, 
He's  cast  out  and  knocked  about  till  he  is  tough  ; 
Yet  better  than  many,  though  down  at  their  feet; 
For  he,  giving  all,  then  must  earn  bread  to  eat. 
But  sometime,  and  somewhere,    a   righting  of 

wrong, 

Will  reconcile  all  the  world's  suffered  so  long  ; 
Then  each  little  Newsey  will  find  there  is  One 
Who  knows  ev'ry  heart- weary  round  he  has  run  \ 
God  hears  when  the  ravens  cry  ;  then,  does  n't  He 
Hear  the  call  of  the  street  waif :  ' '  World-Heruld 

er  Bee!" 


194 


SONNET. 

O  Thou  All -Loving  One,  the  Ever  Good  ! 
Thy  throne  of  golden  suns  and  silver  spheres, 
By  faith  we  see  through  clouds  of  cares  and  tears. 
We  own  thy  power,  Eternal  Fatherhood, 
And  come  to  Thee  as  little  children  should, 
When  earthly  parent  calls  to  where  appears 
The  home  so  dear,  bright  with  the  light  that  cheers: 
What  child  that  loved  the  father,  then  with 
stood  ? 

They  hear  and  know,  although  they  do  not  see. 
If  we  delay,  unheeding,  still,  the  call ; 

Or  from  Thee  in  the  darkness  errant  roam, 
O  may  Thy  mercy  bring  us  back  to  Thee  ! 
Forgive  us  when  we  in  the  darkness  fall, 

Reclaim,  and  lead  thy  wandering  children 
home. 


195 


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